Happy Hour

Magicians never move away from their magic
the stranger in the bar tells me.
I’m waiting for my friend, sipping vodka
from two skinny straws. They hover around objects
that easily move, have special coins in their
pockets, face hair in unique places. Why
do you know so much about magicians,
I ask him? Are you one? I wish, he answers.
I’d change this room into a palace, we’d be dressed
in robes, layers of fabric draped around our ankles,
we’d be drinking ale and eating turkey legs,
laughing from our guts. We’d be dead
in the morning from poisoned apples – a dessert
prepared by the rival palace. Who are you,
I ask him, moving my drink closer to myself.
I am the heir to the throne in the village
where you were born, the one your parents
escaped from before you could walk. I’m the one
who saved you by hiding you in the sleeping car
on the train we’re still riding.