Sense

I'm not afraid of those clairvoyant strokes,
Those lightning-strikes of fortune-telling art,
Where everything appears straight from the heart
Of knowing. No, I'm one of those sad folks
Who know already, for whom good sense pokes
Up through the thin floor, tearing it apart
And speeding, like no ordinary dart,
Into the air, all spears and spines and spokes.

Knowing the future is not fortune's way
Of being kind. It's what we'll never know
That leaves us beaming with a hopeful glow,
While knowledge makes our hearts and faces grey.
I'm not afraid of what clairvoyants say;
It's common sense that's making my knees bow.