She stands before a colored map
to tell me whether the weather
will cooperate with my own hap.
She pushes numbers through her sieve
then cooks insurance reasons
for how long I just might live.
She calculates the fault line in my family tree
and sends my blood in vials to labs
to tell my fortune “scientifically”.
Such is the itch to keep at bay
and to control the monster FUTURE
which, when finally it comes, is D.O.A.
I spit upon my finger, raise it to the wind
each time. I ruminate or contemplate
with my own gut and mind
whether to believe the fateful drone
of experts circling all around these days,
or trust an ancient nudging in the bone.