LUCKY SEVEN

It happened around fourteen hundred, that first hit.

Alone at last, I softened to the sound of the music,

The lyrics hitting me like a ton of bricks. Softened to a pulp.

Twenty one and some days later,

Alone in the car, words came spilling out on a lit screen in the dark:

I do, but that’s hardly the point. (7)

You don’t, and don’t want to know. (7)

But get some happiness out of me, (7)

Of having me, or not having me (7)

Whatever shakes up your world the least. (7)

Twenty eight weeks of shaking later,

The current story begins.

Rainy trips to the treehole

and down that toxic memory lane

Night visits to those with visions

and guides, and ways to channel

something else. Anything else.

And here we are. Nearly seven weeks in

to promises of something new

it’s within reach, or so it seems at times

and then other times I’m here

writing lines about numbers that make no sense

to anyone

until it dings again