Pilgrimage

“Your problem is your liver.” Those were his words with me still in the doorway
I was supposed to be impressed, believe, accept it preternatural, and henceforth say
With convert gratitude, “He knew! The moment that he saw my face he knew!
Saw what those useless doctors couldn’t see and did for me what none of them could do.”

An obvious trick. I faced a charlatan. His questions framed then formed his real decision.
The street photographer of film days took his unasked snaps on film’s tail-end. His con
To make you feel committed. ‘That poor man has wasted film on me.’ In truth he’d not!
You’d stop, agree to buy, he’d wind back to an unused spot and take a real shot.

My Aunt press-ganged me there, would have me share with her in her sad bondage.
Every month she hired the van that took her Church Group on their pilgrimage
For years this man dispensed them unnamed powders. Beneficial? Who could tell?
The ladies swore he’d done them wonders. One must ask why no-one finally got well.

He died. No stopping Aunt, she found his like, again prime physic was belief,
An iridologist. Their methods might be dubious but Aunt’s girls claimed relief.
He’d look into those women’s eyes and tell them all the things they wished to hear.
And though an easy way to make a buck. Not something that I’d have MY conscience bear.