a note on the wisdom of the cynic

Mercury Retrograde

I don't quite understand what makes the planets pull
us into believing that where they are makes history happen –
clocks stop and contracts go bad
and bank accounts drain with a stealth
that thieves should envy.
The astrologers know.
Or they say they do and the starstruck faithful
queue up in virtual space clamouring
for the next Freewill,
impatient for the month to trip into its neighbour
for the next installment of Susan Miller's uncanny.

It's a matter of blind faith you said, over coffee
and a donut, or a danish –
that bit of something you always ordered
to keep your tongue busy.
You were on your soap box that day,
in good form and on about the wisdom of the cynic,
your head back in laughter
or otherwise leaning forward, a question mark hanging invisibly
from the furrow of your disbelief
at my will to believe.
(We used to argue about that a lot –
the empirical, the spiritual –
and usually
you won, or I let you win
so I could watch the victory slide quietly
into your hips and know that by lunch,
we'd be on to something
else.)

I let you win that day,
or you thought you did,
and you got up to pay, all loose-hipped and winking
only to return, hand out for a tenner,
face flushed by the faux pas
of your insufficient funds.