A Lay of the Hands
She’s not in her underwear today. No one goes to her for bachelor parties
or the kid’s fourth birthday. Bat Mitzvah’s are out of her league. Mirrors
covered with dead linens are enough for funerals; no one needs
to bring in a woman who doesn’t weep and everyone knows how
a wake ends. And certainly not for weddings. Everyone knows
how those end too, but no one wants to hear it while the white’s still white.
She is the surveyor of the uncertain, archeologist of the unburied,
dealer of the terribly uncertain news in the form of small white cards.
She is cheap, and that means she is reserved for those times
when pretense doesn’t matter. If your hands are shaking, if you’re
digging the last of the coins from beneath your understanding, if
you are walking down the street hand-in-hand and suddenly
wonder if he’s loyal and true, ten dollars becomes the smallest
price you’ve ever paid to hear the news that will change your life.
Neon gas only comes in colors, but truth is newspaper print left
on the butt of a cigarette. Ask and you shall receive, in those times
of troubled need, exactly what you came for: yourself in twenty years,
aged hands shuffling the faces of strangers into elaborate spots of blind.
~ Palm Reading
Image of Psychic Reading place taken in Redwood City.
Words written in G+ write-in.
Time Taken Couple a’ minutes.
Brain on far-away friends.