chicken and wine

the fat gypsy
with black eyes was not
always
this size. she used to be
skinny
and long,
a lean dark glass of murky
water
sitting on her velvet
throne,
the crystal ball on her
felt table.
but it's been a good year,
she thinks,
pushing a plate of chicken
to the side, pouring
another glass from
a bottle of red wine.
it's been
a year full of worried
customers at her door,
cash in hand,
sick about love
and life,
asking how things will
begin,
how things will end.