Tired modern gypsy
Hopped up on junk
And street-side bebop
That only he hears
Tells me he’ll read my palm
For a buck oh’ six
Including tax, of course.
He holds my fortune for a price.
He can see clearly
If he drinks his malt potion,
And rubs his magic ball
Behind the dumpster.
He grinds ashen hands together
And it makes the sound
Of a snake hiding
In the grass.
My hands are wet and sweating
From fear or nerves
For who am I to judge
The prophet come.
I show him my hand,
He examines it between his own.
His are covered in dirt,
And stories.
Mine are as clean and pale
As a newborn
Quietly sleeping.
His eyes are rolling
As he drags
Haggard thumb with
Cracked yellow nail
Down the lines of my hand
Muttering in tongues
Or slang
I can’t really tell.
And I reach the pinnacle of fear
That suspends time itself.
“I got bad news, missus,”
He says
And gently closes my hand
With the reaffirming squeeze
Of a mother that wasn’t mine.
“The world ain’t nothing but a giggle,
And it’s all laughing at you.”
He looks out to the sky
And with a loud guffaw
At god himself on the horizon
He slaps me on the back.
“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry.
We all stuck here.
Even the ones walking.
We all stuck here.”
And this time I looked up at the sky too
And I laughed at god and the madman
Though I knew not which was above me
And which had just held my hand.