watching the yellowing curtains
shimmer and float and shake
because you've cranked the heat
too high and the vents are
working double time?
What does it feel like
to be certain of something?
Did I make a mistake back in
New Orleans when I decided
I wanted to walk right by
Mike the realistic psychic
in the dark cobblestoned street
and not stop and sit in his folding chair
directly in front of his bearded face
with my arms crossed and hands
tucked into elbows, guarded–
to let him read a deck of tarot cards
that might have held some sort of certainty for me?
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