13,733. WHAT IT USED TO BE LIKE TO BE ME

WHAT IT USED TO 

BE LIKE TO BE ME

The fortune-teller told me I was

a 'harbinger of change.' I was merely 

twenty and she was a gypsy tramp.

A Linden gypsy in some fruitless

Jersey swamp. Rose Hill, Rosedale,

one of the cemetery places. The

Route One traffic rolled by.

-

Those cemeteries right there, across

from each other, back then held all

the gypsy graves. They had metal

picnic tables, scrollwork, and crazy

gravestones too. We were sitting,

across from each other too  -  just

like the cemeteries  -  and she talked

on. Ugly, and fat! What a combo.

-

I was only there for the morning. 

Some NY friend of mine had died,

and I went along for the ride. Not to

death, no, but in one of the cars to

the burial site, which was near.

He must have had gypsy blood,

for he got buried right there.

-

She might have been someone's aunt,

maybe. Aunt Unlucky, I said to myself.

Her daughter  -  with her  -  was named

Alsatia; about 15. I could tell she'd be a

real looker soon. Predicting the future

is sometimes real easy, and I was a

harbinger of change, though maybe

a bit too soon.