On those rosy rare occasions
during
grimy after-
noons spent walking—
when my steady-as-she-
goes attention
span is—suddenly rather rudely
embarrassed—
by a sheer clean wealth
of burnt yellow sun-
flowers and fiery
shocks of spindly
snapdragons waving
at me madly—from
behind an oddly
fanciful
wrought iron
fence somehow splayed
out in
Chicago's most
tumbledown alley—that's
when I secretly
and sheepishly—feel
I'm actually pretty
decent—at recognizing
when I've
been shown
whatever I
must mean by—my own
good fortune.
