I was reading inside the album of Steve Bell's "My Dinner with Bruce" and was impressed that he didn't call the album a tribute album, he said it is "as personal an offering as any" that he's recorded. There is a poem by Amy Fleury that I love and I wish I wrote. Over the last year or so it has become one of my heartsongs. It was sent to me by a very dear friend who knows my heart and it feels right to post it on my blog this week.

At Twenty-Eight

It seems I get by on more luck than sense,
not the kind brought on by knuckle to wood,
breath on dice, or pennies found in the mud.
I shimmy and slip by on pure fool chance.
At turns charmed and cursed, a girl knows romance
as coffee, red wine, and books; solitude
she counts as daylight virtue and muted
evenings, the inventory of absence.
But this is no sorry spinster story,
just the way days string together a life.
Sometimes I eat soup right out of the pan.
Sometimes I don't care if I will marry.
I dance in my kitchen on friday nights,
singing like only a lucky girl can.