[untitled] John Cantey Knight The cagier charlatans that used to sell "Lucky Dogs" to unsuspecting Iowans have washed their dirty hands of relish. They've placed the lengthening ashes of smoking cigarettes like incense on the corners of Samsonite fold-up tables by the Pontalba building as they unfold tarot for tourists. I wonder what life holds hidden this moment. The future is in the grimy hands of coughing gypsies who wear oversized magical quartz rings and silver amylets that guarantee better sex. Cooing pigeons bobbing beads, gawkers in paisley shorts want to believe in a tomorrow that can be explained. The church bell of St. Louis Cathedral tolls ominously, caught like a hanged man in the plastic air of a card's laminate.