By Kenneth Weene
I know it when I try to read literary journals
and get hung up on terms and abbreviations
that have somehow come to life.
I ask my wife, who is younger
but not really young; and she
shrugs her shoulders and laughs
at the absurdity that I should know.
I visit a psychic
who takes my money
to tuck into her bra.
“The portents are propitious,” she says
before my questions have been asked
and says no more;
nor do I.
Hell will wait while I
climb back in my car with gauges
and signals I do not understand
and drive to the nursing home
where I will read no more.
Clutching at Straws 