By force of habit the
Astrologer’s Child
Wakes at midnight to see what the stars
Say about the day to
come. He ignores
The comets, eternally
yammering
About the death of
princes. Always
There is much to do
with cats;
Three kittens will be
born beneath a hedge;
The Yser will leave
its banks and destroy
Many men but an old
tom will be saved
Floating to safety in
a barrel.
Mostly, the stars
have given up trying
To guide him through
life; instead
They tell him to trim
his beard,
To wear socks that
match, or nearly do,
To remember food for
his cats.
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