Beate Sigriddaughter

When the florist calls back
to say: “The flowers you sent
were refused at the door. In cases like this
we usually refund only half the price,”
you gasp in heroic reaction:
“No, no, forget it, uh, just give them away
to someone who happens to be in the shop.”
Three months later, shuffling in line
at the grocery checkout it hits you,
what the florist said: “usually,” is it?
Meaning you are not the only one that
these things happen
to, and you refuse to be enlightened
and take this in a stride of perfect balance,
but skip madly instead on the rope of freedom
all the way home, singing to
extravagant rhythms: “World, here I am.
Just one of you. And happy.”