I met Poetry at the county fair today.
I had just ravaged my corn dog
and the bathroom line was long
so my stroll became an amble
and my amble became a drift
until I loitered in front
of the fortune teller’s tent.
Griselda the sign read:
Interpreter of Dreams
and Voice of the Stars.
Would she have time for me,
an uncomplicated mortal,
mouthpiece of the dim streetlight,
linguist of the lost?
With a faint halloooo
and a crunch of dry mulch
I lifted the coarse flap
of her purple and scarlet tabernacle,
trading the glitter of the carousel lights
for the murk of some
ancient sea beast’s belly.
It smelled like dry leather
and blood and perhaps
- I’ll need to confirm this –
the moon’s dusty surface,
all mixed together
and sent up my nose
by the settling tent canvas.
I made my way to the table before me
and squatted on a spongy chair.
Opposite me like a shadow-denizen,
she stooped with bowed head.
If there was a greeting,
I missed it over the tinny anthem
of the funhouse just outside.
Do you need the money
up front for this? I asked,
Or is this one of those
pay-what-you-want things
or do you do this for free?
I don’t mean to sound trite,
but I’m new to this stuff.
And she, the lady in deep purple,
- who must have been Griselda,
for who else but Griselda
would have beaded and bangled her
wrists with such ecstasy,
or settled her pine green eyes
behind orange-peel glasses,
and who but Griselda would have
ringed her fingers with bone,
tamed her hair with cicada shells,
tasseled her robes with seaweed,
and circled her neck with crow feathers? -
Griselda, smelling only of cigarettes,
the violet visionary, spoke:
I’m on break, my love,
but come back in five.