Like a crowd of lost souls,
We hang on the words of the medium
Up on stage in the spotlight
Cold reading.
But even before he struts
Around asking us innocent questions
About affirmation, the gray clouds,
That feeling when you see death
Approaching in the faces
Of everyone you meet,
He claims modesty,
Reverence for the mystery
That allows him to call the shots
With just a little sweat on his brow.
I see something unnamed, he begins,
An image is coming to mind,
It’s birds flying through fog
That your glasses make into angels.
It’s the kind of show
You don’t soon forget.
He’s all-knowing,
The healed whisper in the daylight
With their walkers and slings,
And a charlatan, whatever that means.
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