Fortune Teller Poem by Mark Heathcote

She held the sphere within her grasp
And took a long, pausing look at him
He's missing a band on his third finger
It's what his other free-hand does clasp

She held the sphere within her grasp
And took another long look at him
His brogue told her that he was a Tinker
Clothes tarmac oily and skin tanned.

She held the sphere within her grasp
She thought to herself while still gawping
Now that's my kind of man; there's no glitter
You just get what it says on the can.