The Psychic Reader

I sit in Murwillumbah Market.
It's cold in the big pavilion
though people tell us
it's already hot outside.

We've had the free cup of coffee
that only this market provides.
We've eaten our second breakfast –
a packed lunch scoffed early
before the customers come.
On a good day I'll be too busy
for any more mouthfuls after 10.

Andrew's been and bought
our supply of organic veggies.
Patsy, who always sees me here,
has had her reading early, as she does.
She brought us each a gardenia.
Mine's on my table, to the side;
the scent wafts up to me. Patsy said,
"It'll keep you happy all day," and it does.

My crystal ball is filled with
inclusions and patches of rainbows.
As big as a baby's head,
it sits on a silk scarf in a basket.
"You can't read with that!" a passer-by
says loudly, "It isn't clear."
I only smile. "You mean that you can't,"
I think but don't bother to say.

I find my chocolate biscuit.
It's 10 to 10; the customers begin.
Two and a half hours later
there's a lull. The autumn sun
is clear and bright in the doors and windows
of the pavilion. The crowds thin
and we are left with big empty spaces
all down the middle of the stalls.
A sudden breeze blows my sign over.
I put my watch back on and start to pack.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008

27/4/08