hot pastrami

worried about
the future we both
go down to
see the gypsy
on 42nd street
and lexington.
she's got a room
above a tailor's
shop that makes
clothing for
theater, the clergy
and the dead.
we get the two
for one deal
and she presses
our hands against
the table turning
them over and over
looking at the lines
and creases, but
says nothing.
and finally it's
time for lunch
and she orders
three hot pastrami
sandwiches and smiles.
on rye with mustard
and a pickle she
says looking at
me, smiling. you're
good i say, you
are good and so
we eat, then go
on about our lives.