For My Next Trick

For my next trick
I'll swallow a spinning globe
and trot around under
the Manhattan Bridge
stately and demented
as a star in squalor.
Putrid as a day glow
painted lemon say, or
filtering out all
the sound except for
the breaths in between
the words. Impossible,
you say, spinning into
the warped boards
of my intentions
which have nothing
to do with you.