NaPoWriMo, Day Sixteen, Poem Twelve

There's an old notebook that was given to me as a gift and included random word stickers I could use as sort of a mini-magnetic poetry kit. I've used it a little so far this month, including for this one.


Remain

As an inspiration more to her
than you to yourself,
even though your crash course on the Tarot
is painting a magic 8 ball with swords,
wands, clubs, spades, and whatever
else you've found on cards,
then throwing the ball up and
letting it smash on your head.
Wasn't there something you
thought of the last time,
something about symbols and cymbals,
how both crash in your world?
Whatever. She's talking now,
praising your evolution.
You don't talk as wrongly
as you did before.
It's almost wisdom,
you cute, phonetic monkey.
Is it wisdom, or is it
half the vocabulary you used to have
with her taking the hint,
leaving you gasping on the phone
like an asthmatic.