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.