“Of life”, said the woman, “How lucky can you be?” There are rivers, mountains, border wars, and sun to blister skin together with the turmoil of making money be. You also have the sea and leaves on every tree in motion entwined with a breeze you cannot see. You have the moon at night and shadows of your fright, the stars in the sky like goals out of reach, and lungs to keep inhaling both the good and the bad elements of luck.
Ah, yes, you have your vehicles and speed that always kills on highways to your destiny as well as backs to scratch, palms to grease, and the other cheek. You have doctors, dentists, lawyers, and, of course, the poor. You have domesticated animals who always want to roam, children born to leave, lovers you can’t see, and mothers like their mothers though they vowed they’d never be.
You have me, the one and only, who can say you have it all when you speak of loving peace and of hating war so don’t ask for more in jungles of concrete that suffocate the weak.
You have a heart like a magician’s hat that brings forth funny things and a soul you cannot know no matter what degrees trail behind your name but what’s in a name when only a mind remains to tell the tale. And your mind belongs to you. I can’t intrude or dare to guess its form and design unless, of course, you pay me to.
And if you wish for many things one day they’ll all come true but scattered in between all the things you do not need, you may not be aware that they are even there. If you pray – well, it’s the same and still bears your name as if you wrote a letter and dispatched it in the mail.
You can wait by the garden gate for a lifetime more-or-less or search amongst the millions for the one who’s meant for you but never will he/she be delivered by the trees unless you believe there are fairies in the glen.
You have the alphabet for life plans of a, b, c, etcetera, and too you have your numbers that balance for the few. You’ve got books to read but no time, things to do still un-done, and a thousand opportunities that never come to call.
You’ve got me to tell you how we feel and poets who write poetry, two faces (maybe more), a stare that says it all, idle hands (sometimes), and body aches to tell you how many years you’ve lived.
Oh, yes, you also have sex and the ones who get lucky may sometimes think it’s love. You have dreams and fantasies that never come true and nightmares that do. You’ve got hopes and you’ve got wishes like fish in oceans deep that always without fail mangle your lifeline.
You’ve got me to show you how to cry, friends you want to be, and always and forever those bills you have to pay. You have your yesterdays in which you never age and your tomorrows that like a birthday gift land in your lap for better or for worse.
One day we’ll all be free but I’m not too sure, you see, so until we all go walking down mystic avenues, you still, of course, have … me! How lucky can you be?