Frances seeks a reception with me.
She’d like to discuss my soul,
waves me under the fairytale spruce where her
great guardian cerebus whimpers but
she will not let him devour me,
not even a nibble for the left head.
No, I’m special, attractive even.
Normally, the oracle tells women coyly that
she likes their shoes but
my dimples have earned me “attractive.”
She points and smiles.
I am essential to the development.
It was a beautiful prayer she heard about my soul.
I do not need all these material things, silly, silly.
I will do greatest things for the community.
That Jeep across the street, she doesn’t care for.
I agree (with all).
Did you know I am very special?
Well, who am I to argue with magic?
My soul is in good hands up there I hope.
We have the same G-d after all,
her Catholic G-d slightly less argumentative than my Old Testament.
“Are you talking to the old Catholic lady down the street, Jewish G-d?”
I ask on the way home from the spruce.
Behind me, a gurgle.
Water bubbling up from the asphalt.
I look for someone who could have thrown it, a drain overflowing.
But there isn’t one.
A small miracle, courtesy of the Oracle of Avon Avenue.
Next week I will bring her a bracelet.
She likes the beads.