An attempt at freestyle rap

I write horoscopes for a living. I’ve glanced

at the space between your eyebrows

exactly five times

since you walked into the tent. When I shake your hands,

I try hard not to think of the MRSA and tuberculosis

and bird flu that you must have wiped across your sleeve

in the slim two seconds

before entering the fair, but invariably

do. My eyes shout, No vacancy

in this hotel or any other –

So you lean forward and pay

for your palm reading

with a folded blanket. When you leave,

I wrap my hair in a new turban

and wonder which billboard

my Segue’s wheels will be lining

tonight.

On the way out of the fair,

you pick at my words

like scabs: receipt,

antibiotic,  lovelorn.