Portrait of Mabel

As dawn cracks the sky and yellow light leaks through The neighbourhood oracle begins her day, sets out her stall on the corner near the station "The end is coming" The newspaper boy in his sister's scarf snatched in haste too early this morning, just before dawn, yawning he peddles past the prophetess. Her long hair writhes, arms paddle the air like a swimmer, only grimmer, then, grinning at the boy on his bike. "Ha you! Think you can fly! Come to Jesus" Over the Eastern roof tops the dawn light gleaming Mabel is born again, beaming her snaggle tooth smile "Joy today! The kingdom is come! Repent!" She has her reasons, though parts of her story her pain, her history, are a mystery In all seasons, all weathers, every morning while the sun slowly clambers into the sky, Mad Mabel, the local oracle with twenty seven assorted bags, eleven teeth, and three bibles is born again. And we are all doomed.