The Clairvoyant and his Friend

They thought they’d get along with one another and they did –

as soon, that is, as The Clairvoyant rid himself of one
obnoxious trait – predicting without cease The Other’s daily fate.

“Oh, I know what you’ll do today at two, you’ll screw up yet

another apple-tripe-and-carrot stew, so that at three, you’ll have
galumphed into an anomie so indescribably a bore that finally

at four, you will contrive a plan, to carry out at five, to fix, at six,

the sort of culinary heaven you might bake for me at seven,
an extravagant brioche-and-sausage plate on which, at eight,

you would announce that we, at nine, would dine, until at ten,

when the brioche showed no propensity to leaven, you’d
conspire at eleven to attempt to delve into the mysteries

of several secret pantry shelves for something we might eat

at twelve, the conjuring of which would, by the stroke of one,
however, not be done.” The Other offered up a poignant sigh.

“Will you also tell me when I’ll die?” “Don’t make me cry,”

the wizard of presentiment replied to his sweet friend. Which
marked the moment his unwelcome prophesies came to an end.









.