She sits in the all-night café,
reading fortunes in pale coffee rings.
Outside the darkness rubs shoulders with strangers,
but here the slow waiting just clings.
She danced in the doorway of satin and plastic,
a game where only the losers can win.
Now in the silence of shuffling streetlamps
she jerks like a puppet who pulls her own strings.
Her fortune stalks before her.
Her fortune creeps behind.
Her fortune never turns to greet her.
Fortune’s luck is deaf and blind.
She walks from the all-night café,
pulling her coat close as wings –
with nothing but dust for her comfort
while cold traces of love smear her skin.
.
David Ward
/