We cast our spells from 7-Eleven,
each Big Gulp, a witch’s brew of cloves and toads.
The gas tanks are full of cobs, each unleaded gallon
a cornhusk doll. You are going nowhere,
sweet customer, until you give up your Mini Cooper,
which we will transform into outsider art.
We cast our spells with prime numbers,
the seventh daughter of the seven deadly sins
and Shakespeare’s Seven Ages of Woman.
It is the eleventh hour, the Doomsday Clock’s
hideous tock keeping us awake. The safe
here is filled with extinct seeds.
We cast our spells with Go-Go Taquitos,
greasy, spicy wands. Our Slurpees will drug you
to sleep in which you will dream rural dreams,
each parking lot a farm, each mall a barn.
Scratch this four-leaf lottery ticket
if you dare to know your future.
