Aging Mystic

With daily preparations made,
she slumps into her chair,
a fraying turban hiding
thinning threads of graying hair.

The hem is slightly tattered
of her dress of velveteen.
A peeking pair of slippers there
have lost their silver sheen.

Around her slender shoulders
drapes a shawl with golden thread-
some stars and moons appearing
in a universe of red.

In all, she looks quite comely,
and assumes a regal air.
She figures she is ready
for the seekers coming there.

She pulls a wobbly table
within reach of spindly hands,
and fumbles with a deck of cards
to meet the day’s demands.


Her sniffles are a nuisance.
She endures a common cold,
but otherwise, her health is good,
or so the cards have told.

Her book shows no appointments,
so she risks a gin with lime,
and turns the television on
to while away the time.

“The Wisest” once they called her
as she read the Tarot cards
but her eyes have grown much weaker now
and so have their regards
****
Just off highway ninety-eight,
near the town of Drear,
sits the lonely single-wide-
scant reason to pause here.

The rain is getting colder
as the afternoon turns mean.
Loud traffic takes no notice,
swishing swiftly past the scene.

But when the rain is over
She vows to get outside
And trim all the intrusive weeds
From the sign they hide:

Madame Sosostris
Famous Clairvoyante