Some times, on those sunny days
with the puffy clouds
in early spring
when the weather changes
and the right new partner
rests there in the special crook in your arm
and everything feels new and right
and good and just
and the universe seems so perfect
like nothing could go wrong
and you just wonder how could anything possibly ever mess this up?

And then for a fleeting second
you get in your own head
and you wonder
if you’ve jinxed it all
by identifying the miracle
and now, having called god’s attention to
the good fortune,
that right bastard knows just what he has to do
to pluck that Instant of heaven
from the jaws of your quivering stupid mouth?

But then you realize you’re being silly,
that the universe is not so cruel,
that no infinite power could be so petty
and that your joy,
however precious,
is too small a thing for any galactic force
to be terribly concerned with,
and you go back to walking dogs in the sand
or boiling lobsters
or being etched into silhouette cameos
or whatever moment of paradise
you were previously involved in?

Remember the petty universe.
You will have need of those memories again
and a reminder of what
a right bastard looks like.