You used to count your French fries.

One-by-one you made them disappear in a puff of smoke
like a secret slight-of-hand artist,
all the while keeping track of each one,
tucked into your sleeves and inside pockets
so that, in the final gut-wrenching act,
you could bring them all back.

For too long
it was a magic show
with no audience.

In the past months I have watched the show evolve.
No more smoke and mirrors,
or misdirection.
The final act has been cut.
By all accounts the show is much less exciting,
more commonplace.

But I still count.
Every single one.
And silently applaud each now-you-see-it, now-you-don't.

Because I know that the hardest trick,
the mark of a true master,
is making them disappear for good.