Psychic Trip

It was a girls' night out on one Friday eve,    
When I and some friends on a jaunt to the mall,    
All gaily lit up for Christmas holiday.    
   
The tri-level mall was a sight to behold;    
Every floor made of glass that you could see through.    
   
And there at the top between two other shops    
Was sandwiched an open-air stall, with a sign:    
   
A wide-open hand with a seeing-all eye,    
With a network of lines criss-crossing its palm.    
   
"Your Fortune Read" it said, the mystic is IN,    
Its slight buzz of neon green glared unblinking;    
For five dollars each seemed too good to be true.    
   
The stall was too small for us all to fit in,    
So half of us stayed and the rest of us left    
Till each girl was called back when it was her turn.    
   
So as for me next door, I hovered nearby,    
Pretending to shop, distracted to listen    
With ear to the glass so that I overheard    
   
A mystical voice speaking low as she said:    
"I see from the ball, and the cards where they lie,    
You're taking a long ocean voyage this spring."    
   
I left where I was to the escalators    
And went down a flight for a frothy orange shake.    
   
By the time I returned while sucking a straw    
I leaned once again to the very same wall:    
   
A mystical voice speaking low as she said:    
"I see from the ball, and the cards where they lie,    
You're taking a long ocean voyage this spring."    
   
I didn't think too much of what I'd just heard,    
For now I heard my name, my turn was up next.    
   
I entered the stall of color reflections,    
A woman in black offered me a hard chair.    
   
Her smile a rouged smile through curtains of long hair,    
I noticed that she was no older than me.    
   
I'd never before consulted a psychic    
Especially for pay, so that was just weird,    
But hand her the greenback I did willingly.    
   
It felt very strange, so aloft like a bird    
In a nest made of crystalline threads & sticks.    
   
My eyes shifted round as I kept my back straight,    
Not wanting to give away my mental state.    
   
There wasn't a clue, not a gypsy in sight    
When it came to the native accoutrements:    
   
No candles or incense, no wall tapestries,    
No brass bells from fringes across a threshold      
Not even the charm of an old wagon wheel.    
   
She shuffled her Tarot card deck thoughtfully    
As dozens of slender brass bracelets jangled,    
While staggering cards, and divining her ball.    
   
She then raised her mascara eyes to meet mine,    
With one henna hand that raised up to her neck,    
The guttural sound of her clearing her throat,    
   
Then she spoke:    
"I see from the ball, and the cards where they lie,    
You're taking a long ocean voyage this spring."