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Poem

on the reference of a 
friend who used to be
close, s/he asks the cartomancer 
to come to the house---
as this is not a privilege
often granted to those whose cards
are to be read (so the “reader”
claims), extra funds are required
to lure her in & 
the sap in question feels that the
frustrations of his/her life have led 
them to this place
of concentrated desperation &
loneliness,
are grounds enough to shell out
the moola, to roll out the red carpet
if necessary, in order to
provide the best atmosphere for the
“reader,” whose life has been
based on “interpreting the
tarot.”

offering the tea of her choice & 
brewing it whilst they both sit down, 
the woman’s stereotypical garb
woos the sap into thinking that this
woman has some kind of ancient 
presence & the power of the 
mythical washes over the sap
like a gentle breeze tickling the
back of her/his neck on a chilly
October afternoon.

after the tea is poured, the cards have
been chosen, the “reader” 
does not break eye contact,
proceeding to tell the sap a tale
that could be weaved (and quite 
probably has been) for anyone
who asks the reader to come to their
house, who seems so distraught &
alone, who evidently has come to
a major turning point in her life,
weighs upon every word that
the “reader” spits at them.

dewy eyed with brand new hope,
more horrible than the loneliness 
that led them to this charlatan,
the sap sees her to the door,
constantly thanking her for the
things that s/he heard which s/he
liked, like a mouse sticking its
head into the trap right before it
sets it off, licking its lips &
thinking that it found the peanut
butter all on its own &
oh how lucky it is
to have this feast lie before it.

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