A VERY corny poem about an adventure I had one time.

I walked away and crumpled in my car

The night the ides of March struck sharp and true

I drove home- the familiar roads, I barely knew

A block away, I slowed to wonder who you are

So why in Paris? Why, at seventeen,

Did I find you, miraculously there,

Know you so well, that from the topmost stair

I called you, and you turned- what did it mean?

Did it mean Fate rules Paris, or the Louvre?

Did it mean I should find the things I miss?

Or God set us in clockwork- maybe this

Is blasphemy- or maybe this is proof

Of graciousness- some grain of hope in love

For seventeen, that day has been enough.