My Astrologer

I visit my astrologer,
climb three flights of stairs,
then sit in a waiting room.

Wash your hands, a voice
comes from a speaker,
though I don’t move.

A buzzer sounds
and I walk into
the next room

divided by a curtain.
The astrologer sits
facing the window.

She wears a red dress
and what appears to be
a hearing aid in her left ear.

It’s so quiet in the house,
I hear a mouse scratch
himself behind the wall.

There is no such
thing as coincidence
she says.

And I remember
a fortune telling booth
I once saw,

a life-sized mechanical
tarot card reader
sitting behind thick glass.

Four quarters
to tell the future,
confirm your suspicions

or brush your cheek
the next time
you fall asleep.