They were lemmings aligning,
ever impatient, always seeking.
For some, it would be rejuvenation,
for others rebirth, a recapture of youth.
He was no mage, not Merlin, but
they gathered around his table
a lazy susan of desires, pleas, entreaties.
All he could offer was snake oil, but they
gladly took it as hope, an abiding faith
in a cure for their existential condition.
They were always willing to wager it all
in another bet against the house,
against all odds, desperate for what they
imagined they might receive if only they
were worthy of his favor, his beneficence.
And he stood proudly before them,
dispensing a nothingness that filled
their voids, and he knew that a promise,
even a false one, when married to hope
and faith might be exactly what would
get them though yet another day.
He was an angel and a charlatan,
but he knew that they gave him meaning,
a purpose that life and religion had denied him
for that was the symbiotic hand
that the capricious gods had dealt them all.

First appeared in New English Review, November 2023
https://www.newenglishreview.org/articles/step-right_up/