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In the bleachers, at the game,
Madame Charlotte watches the players,
sprinting back and forth,
reading the tapestry of fate:
the seven car pileup on the interstate,
the armed robbery at the 7-11,
the rioters arrested at the union strike.

On the bench at wind-still pond,
she tracks the waterbugs,
scattering back and forth,
reading the tapestry of fate:
the catfish caught in the next minute,
the butterfly crushed by the next car,
the rainbow at five-oh-one this evening.

At home, the Madame plays at matchmaking.
She is never, ever, wrong:
Paul cheats on Brandy,
Susan kisses her life-love at prom,
Mitch finally gets lucky.
She smiles, Rhonda is getting roses today,
as she cleans out a litter box,
one of five too few,
for twelve cats too many.
She thinks to nobody,
“Princess always covers it
in the broadest strokes.”

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