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It's like, heavy, man!
Mystery inscrutable to regular analytic tools,
A Logic whose outcome sits beyond
Scope of rational, academic exercise!
Even if I had my desk in library stacks
And with it ready reference to twenty, one-foot-thick
Ancient texts, I doubt any human learning might lead me
(However diligent my application) to fathom what
Great Luck had brought you into my arms,
And yet tonight sustains my rapture.
Perhaps I unduly vex myself?
Nonetheless I wonder how had it come to be
That in a parking garage, a great space,
Which on weekends became a swap meet,
A regular New York City in-door, flea market,
Offering all kinds of old and colorful goods for sale,
A jam-packed scene, row after row of tables and stalls,
Set against both sides of wide aisles,
Here's the question,
Had love found its way through all the material clutter?
Too, I ask, what Providence had prompted Johnny,
My friend, and my helper, a man,
Who always had kept to his own counsel,
-- This, the one time, for he never, never
Interfered, ventured opinion on any other matter! --
He interrupted the normal, business routine,
The booth's weekly setup.
He used all the resolve he could muster,
And reiterated to me, not once,
But on at least, half-dozen, separate occasions,
A notion that you and I were right,
Good, one for the other, in every special way.
Johnny said you wanted me.
You later objected,
Said no such thought had ever entered your head,
That his estimation about your feelings toward me
Was wrong, simply mistaken.
Later, when gently pressed, however, you also confided,
Women frequently flirt to their business advantage.
I had noticed you, to be sure!
You were a regular customer.
A tall woman, and skinny, you had long brown hair,
And a nice face with a quick smile.
I shall always remember
The way you hurried through your purchases
With attentive eyes and lengthy fingers,
How sprite your manner and step!
Still no thought of romance had entered my mind.
I had not imagined us a suitable couple.
No! Not at all,
Until that one, the one, very early morning, when,
During a heavy rainstorm, I drove across Brooklyn
To collect you from the hostel.
We were going antiquing.
It was to be our first daylong excursion,
And in what seemed a proper gesture at the time,
I stopped at an all-night shop, and bought you
A single, exotic flower in a clear glass vase.
You, sister, limestone island, Baltic woman,
I, who had sprung from the land-locked plains of Illinois,
Across countless markets and through
All the many wares we had examined for purchase,
For the decades, the year after year,
We had been searching,
Searching and searching, hoping for treasure,
Now there it lay before us,
A worth whose value surpassed,
The highest dollar bid at an Old-Master auction.
Consider the millions-to-one odds
Stacked against our favor, I... I, I mean, really!
I trust you have come to believe that
This thing of ours bespeaks no ordinary human convention.
Let us remember,
Whomsoever the divine designates together,
No mortal may draw asunder.
This is it! I do! I do love you!
Tonight the pilot naps in the back seat.
I sit in front, my hands on the wheel in the cockpit.
Yet I do not fly the aircraft. The bright,
Rollover arrows signal the glide path.
And over the wire direct to my ear,
Ten thousand watts propel the voice.
It says, 'You do! You do love her! '