Gypsy Lady Poem by Robin Bennett

Tell me my future, gypsy lady-
"You are a purveyor of words, " she speaks.
Fifty cent words
to be exact.
They come a
dime a dozen, like
your chicken eggs.
Useless and ordinary,
like a room full of yesterdays.

Surprisingly white candles-
fight each other
for a chance
to burn in gypsy hell.
Once lit, they mellow the
cheap tin circles drooping
from gypsy lady's
ears. Here I sit,
dead bored. I give in
and try to make small talk
to what's left of your pet snake.
Heard, you drained him
this morning. Another batch
of your folk remedies. Snake
oil magic, cash only please.

You stand to water
your plastic flowers.
Covered in
old gypsy dust,
and left to
rot in a cheap
wine jug.

Again, the
same old song
and dance.
Gypsies, tramps and thieves...



* reference to Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves from song of same name performed by Cher*