Sixty-one.

This is about happiness.
Just because the timing is right
doesn't mean he's there to save you.
You fall out of a building and land
directly on top of a mourning dove
who is diving for his breakfast.
This does not mean that he exists
in this pocket of air in this moment
for you, and besides,
six ounces of feather and hollow bone
don't stand a chance against
your plummeting mass. Do you see
what I'm saying here? It's more
than physics and coincidences,
it's the pretty girl visiting
from out of town with an internal weight
equal to his own (note: balance is always key),
it's the increasing number of nights
spent in separate rooms, it's
the day you held a string up to the map
and each inch meant twenty miles and
when you were done with all the measuring
you could wrap it around your wrist
seven times, and who the hell decided
that the number was lucky anyway?
Now, hang up the phone and admit
that you don't have the answer.
Admit that this is the wrong way
again, that you have one last hand
to show and it has nothing to do with
winning, and fall asleep with the fan on
because you desperately need
the noise.