The steady drumming on a thin metal overhang
is the only thing drawing me back to reality.
It is 45 degrees out, and I am soaked through.
I’ve tucked myself into this corner as protection,
and a way to remain unseen by the world.
I once met with a palm reader with a deck of worn tarot cards
and I asked her what she saw.
She whispered a few words and took my hand into hers.
Her face dropped and slowly, steadily,
a stream began sloping down her rouged cheek.
Only two words escaped before she dropped my hand in horror,
“I’m sorry.”
It’s funny now, how I left angrily and pinned her as fraud.
Here I am now,
Sitting under this noisy tin overhang,
with the world crying solemnly for me, whispering to everything the words,
“I’m sorry.”
bellyoftheshark 