Before I deal or receive a hand
29 flashes in my cribbage mind
and every poker hand’s a royal flush.
Before I throw the covers on the bed
I think it’s possible for them to fall
exactly into place. They never do.
Each game is perfect until a batter
reaches first in one of those seven ways
or doubles, triples or touches ‘em all.
Every swing’s a hit if not a homer
in my mind before the pitch. I think of
“Prefect rice. Every time,” a mother’s love.
Our love is perfect even when it’s not
because I feel it so. I know why not
but feel what could be. Why not expect it
if I’m not upset when the usual,
the mundane, takes its place in the present
and let its pre-glow infuse moment?
It’s not the same as confidence; I know
the sheet will never fall in even squares,
the 29 will likely go undealt,
but how random it will seem, not really mine,
when that Perfect Thing comes along and I
have not foreseen, foretasted, forerelished?
When perfection doesn’t happen, as it
almost always won’t, that hopeful vision
is not erased by disappointment.
It was there. Felt as if the miracle
already had occurred, salving the burn
of truth, as I anticipate the next
Great Moment of Impossibility.