poetry by j matthew waters

old signs rising above the eastern horizon

I’m reading my daily horoscope
in the palm of my hand
seated at a table for two at a streetside cafe
waiting on an old acquaintance
who promised to make me young again

I’ve always been drawn
to the mysterious world of houses
and transits and T-square configurations
where struggles are witnessed by the naked eye
in the privacy of your own ruminations

whether or not this chance meeting
will ever take place
makes no difference to me or my imagination
as I sit here quietly reminiscing
how my own world may indeed be retrograding

march two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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