GOOD TO BE LUCKY

How often, it seems to me, an error

proves to be the key that opens doors

 

to unforeseen prosperity, while ex-

ecutions less imperfect in their ex-

cellence lead nowhere, as when a mishit

dribbler sparks a rally, while the blistered

liner settles into leather, to snuff

the home team’s hopes. This is the vexing stuff

of life and luck. I wish that I could forecast

which fuckups would prove fruitful, but the past

discloses no mysteries in advance

and the dancer stays soldered to the dance.

We have made our share of missteps, but the longer

we play through them, persevere, the stronger

grows our bond. Impeccability is not

our lot. We’re vain. We sin. We take weak shots

at glory, we soar too high, we tumble

to earth, find our feet again—and stumble

into thickets dark and deep. We are lost

and found and lack the wit to grasp and gloss

our going, knowing only where we’ve been,

dust motes moved by static on a shifting screen.