delicate fingers trace the smooth surface of the pictures,
squinting under the dim street lights:
as weeds bend to try and join us,
as the edges of the cold bite at our necks.

they promise us the answers
we offer them our hearts, our wishes,
the ones that would die if we spoke them aloud.

we are creatures of cynicism
but for now we are believers,
hunched over the cards with bated breath:
silent for the benefit of suburban neighbors.

gripping at our phones
(our comfort objects)
in anticipation,

as she slowly tells us what they mean.

they come in dichotomies:
either beautiful or terrible.
all we desire or everything we've ever feared.

what is more powerful than ancient symbols on the street corner?
what is more believable than the tarot cards the atheist carries,
preaching to the Christians about a different kind of mystery?

the knowledge makes us reckless.
if we know it all,
we have nothing to lose.

the boys on their bikes are too high to pedal straight,
but we are on something far stronger,
and though they try to mess with us,
it is the girls who win in the end:
little boys, even you must have seen them,
these cards that can tell you anything you ask.

be careful what you wish for:
we are made of dark eyes and dark jackets,
wondering how long the power will last.

three is the magic number
and the stars are shining in a clear night
and the boys are riding away, laughing
and the cards tell us that this will not last for very long.

(for once,
I hope they're wrong)