PAD Day 27: Meeting The Hanging Man, and a Happy (Prime) Birthday

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "story" poem, and (2) write a poem inspired by a tarot card. I know very little about tarot cards, but for me, the most intriguing one has always been "The Hanging Man". So I imagined what it would be like to actually meet this character, and made it into a "story" of sorts in a prose poem.  I'm not sure where I'm going with this, and it doesn't feel quite finished - I think I'm just trying to inject a little humor and humanization into a mystical character.

The Hanging Man

I met a man on the road, hanging upside down by his right ankle from a tree.

"You remind me of a tarot card," I said.

"Really?" he replied. "I am not familiar with that."

"Are you a martyr or a traitor?" I asked.

"That depends on who you ask."

"Who did this to you?"

"Oh, I did this on my own free will.

I might have had a little help."

I noticed his free foot was folded

behind his bound one,

and his arms were folded behind him.

"You look triangular," I said. "Or a cross folded over, like a swastika."

"Oh no," he protested. "A fylfot cross. It had a long history in heraldry,

before those Nazis got hold of it."

"You look like a crucifixion, yet you don't seem to be suffering."

"On the contrary, I've had much time for reflection.

It's as though I'm hanging between the material and spiritual worlds."

"Wow," I said. "Have you come up with any Great Truths?"

"I'm still working those out. One thing I know is I won't die here."

Suddenly I noticed something else unusual about him.

"Did you know that you have a halo?"

"No, I didn't. That might just be from all the blood rushing to my head.

Sometimes I get a doozy of a migraine.

Hey, you don't happen to have an extra sandwich

in that backpack, do you?"

And here's a bonus poem: My birthday is today (April 27), and since I'm always wrapping up a month of daily poems on my birthday, I always try to write a birthday poem to myself. Here is this year's installment. (It's also a bit of a riddle - see if you can figure out how old I am.)

Prime of My Life

This year I am a prime number.

If you counted birthdays in this way,

I would be only nineteen.

I'll have six more in my first century,

three in the next decade alone,

and I hope to make it to them all.

There is a certain security in knowing

that this year I can only be divided

by one or by myself.

I've added two lines to this poem

to make it prime as well.