Boardwalk Fortune Teller
A POEM
Borne up by priestly hands beyond the dark
The clean oblation of the harvest moon
Draws no heart to it. Here the brute is stark,
Full-rationed on the rich, barbaric tune
Of jangling carousels, cheap bawdy shows,
Horrors in waxwork, snuffling furtive lust
Along the darkened sands. Yet still he knows
Enduring hunger, and a stronger thrust:
This child, this frightened huddler by the fire,
This prattler in the sun, this fool who mars
The beauty he may never understand,
Stirred by an old, implacable desire,
Traces a destiny in the lonely stars.
And fortune on the parchment of his hand.
You May Also Enjoy
The Prodigal Father and His Child
“Well, Father, my share of the farm has
been turned into gold.
I take it…