On the Midway

Roma, maybe; I don't know, her dark hair
Covered by a scarf, she smiled and said
She'd read my palm. She took my hand
And stroked it gently, mumbling an
Incantation. I said that I knew my fate.
She brought my hand up to her lips
And kissed it. Then she leaned toward
Me, and whispered, “I'm not certain
That you do.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 18 times
Written on 2020-05-20 at 16:47

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