Defining Poetry

the reader

The Reader

Luna Lacuna, not her real name,
a failed Catholic, reads Tarot in her kitchen,
despises Ratzinger, reveres Wotyja, waits for a female Pope.
She serves cream sherry, Almonettes, has a brisket in the crock-pot.
Here is your card, The World , a great big beach ball,
but air is escaping. You have the world on a string, the whole enchilada,
but The Devil is crossing you. Hell is filled with good intentions.
I never read reversals she says, life is too hard anyway.
I play Go Fish with the children, using multiple decks.
Here is the Chariot. Row your own boat. Steer your own course.
I go to Weight Watchers every Tuesday.
The last card, ah, The Star , sweetness and light,
go home, run a bubblebath, play Stella by Starlight,
Be grateful.