This came to me via my daily Poem of the Day e-mail. It's almost scary how truly and accurately this describes me. With the exception of the age (I am thankfully only almost 27), and the words "red wine" (which could easily be substituted with with word "chocolate", it's almost as though I wrote it...
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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