he took my one dollar bill and folded it first into the twin towers,

burning sickly green, billowing ghastly smoke, fire alarms going off at the dog track,

but the greyhounds kept racing.

and the twin towers smoldered down to a green rose in his hand,

each of his fingers working like a humming bird beak held up with invisible wings,

and the greyhounds racing around the track like clock hands.

that’s what we do, we bet on time,

and the magician was betting my dollar against the laws of reason.

suddenly my dollar bill unfolds into a twenty.

I take it and realize it’s been fourteen years since he first took my dollar.

and he’s been dead for five.

I look at the greyhound track and it’s empty.

greyhound racing has been outlawed for three years.

I pocket my twenty and walk home.

Adam Augello is currently studying creative writing at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. He grew up in Kingston, a small town on the Southeast coast of Massachusetts.