The Coriolis Effect

Neil pleas for a gold heart
through the static as I park.
It's possible to want something so badly
that you don't.
The sidewalk feels harder
than last year underfoot.
There's a view of my brick tower
from my path, though I don't notice.

My eyes stick to pedestrians.
Maybe. Hopeful. Christ.
And then, like in my nightmare
Mary Magdalene appears.
Perfection is propelled
by her feet in my direction.
This is how it's meant to be.
Organic. Random. Chance.

Her bangs fall from a hat
that can't disguise her sainthood.
Strength pokes through her face
with stubborn, rigid cheekbones.
The things that I would tell her
over Sunday morning coffee
lighten every step
as we breathe steam in the night.

Like living locomotives
we head for our collision.
I rifle through my lines
like a drunken understudy.
Before I can recite them
she breaks our dear formation
by crossing to her lover
who waits across the street.

There's how it's meant to be
and then
there's how it is
and somewhere in the difference
lurks the humor that we're given
to help with unpulled punches
and moments that we've jinxed
with the notion that a human heart
is anything but shining.

Currently reading:
"This Is How You Lose Her" by Junot Diaz.

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