There must be fifty people on the beach,
but the green glass globe floats straight
to you, as if attached by invisible string.
It's been years since Japanese fishermen
tied hand-blown orbs to nets; a rare prize.
A hurricane blows a zebra butterfly
a thousand miles off course. It appears
in your backyard. You happen
to be standing beside the lantana
holding a new digital camera. Of course,
the photo you take is a prize-winner.
For over twenty years you've phoned
to tell me of your crazy luck. Now,
I'm snowed in when you call to say
the fruit on your avocado tree ripened
early, and you're making guacamole
for a party to celebrate a Pushcart Prize,
garnered for your one and only poem.
At my desk, I stare at the leafless stem
that sprouted from an avocado seed
held over a jar of water by toothpicks
and expectation. I don't know how
much more of your luck I can stand.