Life is so full of coincidence,
its coincidences coincide.
It is coincidental that we live on temperate Earth,
not steamy Venus or vagabond Pluto,
outlier rock and no longer a planet.
Coincidental ice freezes down not up,
that we exhale CO2, trees oxygen
(despite what Ronald Reagan said),
that lightning struck amino soup, not tomato,
that gravity makes things stick.
Coincidental we grow old, not younger,
that we are mostly larger than our pets,
that rot makes soil, not diamonds,
that wiener dogs are shaped like frankfurters.
Coincidental dinosaurs are gone
to fill the tanks of thirsty automobiles
in which we drive a numbered country road
threaded through the forest that remains.
Coincidental I should find two socks
seemingly my size, with cushioned heel
a Van Gogh study lying on the shale
when, in haste, I’ve left mine at home.
Coincidental I should leave them there
sprawled on the stones in sky burial,
and walk sockless to a nameless waterfall
where we shout poetry above the roar.