Pythia

The cat paws
across the fir floor–
each step
a tiny heartbeat;
my own
pulsates
like a tale
told by an
idiot,
signifying nothing.
Certainly
there is a scrying–
of cat palms,
and jelly-bean-toe-mancy,
to tell my future,
in empty tea cups and
toppled stacks
of books, but perhaps,
none is needed.

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