"At Twenty-Eight" by Amy Fleury

At Twenty-Eight
by Amy Fleury

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.





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