CALL THIS NUMBER, TODAY

My uncle was a banker,
fingering his abacus

at inappropriate moments
at the dinner table.

Holidays were a particular
nightmare often ending

in mathematical equations
and astrological accusations.

Miss Cleo from the Psychic
Network sat at the table

dropping her Jamaican
accent for straight up

South Bronx ghetto talk,
gang signs and Mafia

knife work on unsuspecting
turkeys and legs of lamb.

Later, bones were gathered
and thrown like greasy dice,

maps drawn, difficult
place names lodged

in the back of the throat,
fortunes told, other fortunes lost.

The past an unwanted guest
sitting at an empty plate—

what the future held
was anybody’s guess.