The Palm Reader - Charlotte Foote

He waits with hungry eyes

For eight dollars’ worth

Of empty promises

Words from the wallet

Desperate to believe

In predetermination

That his fingertips are at fault

She traces his hands

Searches for secrets

As if they run skin deep

Red lacquer nails

On sandpaper skin

(It is what we touch

And not our palms

That defines us)

The curve of a bottle

Was all too familiar

And a hand to hold

Almost foreign

After years of absence

The only lifeline left

Exists upon his palm

He lost touch long ago

Perhaps that is why

He pays for his future

Almost believes her

When she says it will be bright

But his head line reads loss

So he leaves a tip

And says he’ll come again