How to Fall in Love at First Sight

Never prepare for serendipity.

Embrace it, when it strikes,

like a steamy dream you didn’t see

coming; or the disappearance

of your watch, at the magicians snap

of his wand. Wear a helmet,

earplugs, and dark glasses;

better still, stay home and lock the doors.

Or venture out, catch a bus, read your texts:

Drinks? 7.30?

Arrive at work, arrive late, call in sick.

Delete those photo ghosts.

You’ve moved on now.

Note to self: What I’m grateful for today is :

being single.

Walk through a crowd and notice yourself

not noticing that you’re being noticed.

Be silly, try on tiaras,

be serious, sign a petition.

Do all the normal things that someone

not looking for love would do.

Watch a sit-com for company and

never prepare to improvise.

Or

You could plan, plot a journey

from A to B.

Attach your wings to fly there quick.

Wear red lipstick, Chanel No5.

Decide the venue, what to wear?

Buy candles, black lace;

No. Nude lace. Ivory. Blush

at the blurred seam of burning

desire, and pure unselfish love.

Swallow your hussy like nectar

then run a duster over the tube

of lube and make your list,

prepare to improvise.

Decision made, act with alacrity:

Quick. pull on joggers, old sweater,

ditch the make-up and hair routine.

Leave the dirty dishes. Priorities!

Leave the house and slam the door,

head towards the mall for supplies.

On the way succumb to the call

of coffee; for energy you tell

yourself, but quick quick quick.

Ping the door will sing as you open it,

card at the ready to pay. Oops!

You will knock into a hand that holds a steamy latte;

you feel its hot milky wetness spread

like a map over your sweater.

Everyone sees. You notice them

notice you as you stand there,

like the subject

against a bokeh blur

until you too

begin to

fade.

You

barely

hear the

voice

that your ears will drink

like it was Dom Perignon—

throatless inebriation

from a kindred vibration:

So sorry. Are you OK, can I help?

Surrender to the climate-change-

catastrophe raging on the surface of your skin

as you look up and wish you had

prepared to improvise even though

you realise the futility of it. The futility

of rehearsal and performance. Then you

finally nod to my ghost, smile, and say thank you.

He will believe it’s all for him and maybe

he will not be wholly wrong.

But you will soar from serendipity.