At The Hospital
Pendants of light
reflections reversed
bent on slick white tile
random voices
in chained rooms
living out their untold
fortunes. Are fortunes told
or are they read,
written in a book of days
all numbered
not visible except
through curving crystal?
Or are they droned
the same tune every time
inside the skull,
mortality's earworms?
I am indifferent.
The gypsy broke my cup;
my tea leaves spilled.
circa 2019, rev. March 2022
posted for earthweal's
Images: Sun In An Empty Room, 1963, © Edward Hopper Fair Use
The Fortune Teller, 1933, © Brassai Fair Use
