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The mysterious woman in the paisley shawl
Tells me to sit by her crystal ball.

Her hair is long, down to her waist
Lines and wrinkles crease her face.

Her fingers adorned with over-sized jewels
One ring carved into miniature ghouls.

If she knew why I was here it would be an insult.
I'm a reporter assigned to research the occult.

I'm rational and logical no spirit lover
But I was assigned my first story, under cover.

She says what I owe her; I write her a check
Then she pulls out an ancient Tarot deck.

I think to myself how fake, what a racket
And proceed to remove my outer jacket.

She spreads out the cards then says with a sigh,
"You're not here for a reading; you're really a spy."

I'm disturbed and I'm nervous, have chills down my spine
It's obvious now she's got knowledge divine.

"You're not a believer you're here for a story.
But I don't do interviews, I'm very sorry."

There was nothing I could do but nod my head
The truth was disclosed in the cards she had read.

"I never will doubt the power of the Tarot."
I said, as I stood up ready to go.

She gave a nod and a wry smile and pointed at my dress.
I'd forgotten I'd pinned my reporter's badge which said "PRESS".

Learn more about this author, Tierney O'Hara.
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