The Little Fluke

A flak of luck, as I think of it,
the hap in happiness
neutral as a flake of schist.
Of snow. Of skin.

Whatever time we’re in,
we’d better make a memory,
however un-noteworthy
(what would happen without?)

the melody; the party
however parted. However shared,
the little flare of conscious
coincidence that need not be

more mystical or woozy
than the sides of a vertex, our chairs
turned at whichever angle
we could edge together.

I remember sourdough
toast we loved outdoors
on that tiny patio,
that seaside garden,

stepping stones
into a breakfast rest,
a luxury of time
to sit inside a moment:

Provincetown, twenty years ago.
As if a cafe, long since closed,
could come visit me,
nestled in a reverie.

As if I sort of knew
that calm, watercolor day
that it would, at some odd hour,
turn up naked, lost,

flush with faith
in detours; asking for directions
with a smile I wouldn’t know
how to turn away.