Telling My Son how Fate Works


I tell my teenage son,
That fate doesn’t always bring
Everything to the doorstep,
Unlike a milk bottle, the newspaper,
And letters. The last one of the lot, snail mail,
Is fast becoming extinct, with only
Water bills and marketing announcements,
Coming in the postal system. I tell him
To always be alert, but never
Turn into an anxious wreck, who
Panics even when his wife
Is five minutes late, to return home.

And then, there’s the stork’s parcel
That most wedded couples
Go through at around the 2-3 year mark.
That is only the bump and grind, of making love
In two-days intervals, leaving enough room
To stock on the barmy space-tadpoles
That will search for Venus, inside
A fallopian tube.

Fate is though beautiful,
It is defined by the aura, the form
And the shadow. It first gives
Anticipation monsoons that fall on you
With a subtle giddiness, expectation looking
Out of a window, which when turns,
To form, is the act of delivering on time,
A cartographer’s treasure, which
Could be a goddess, a princess or for
That matter, a stray hybrid dog. Finally
There is the shadow, the aftermath,
When you look back you to witness,
The beautiful collision of choice
Against the unknown script, to sculpt
A little fortune or perhaps even a fairy tale.

That my son, is the beauty of fate,
The extraordinary belief in you,
That something good is about to happen,
Which in post-fact is called serendipity,
Which translates to getting your hands dirty,
And waiting for the residue of lady luck,
Who in real life, is more often than not,
A cheap whore, with a heart of gold.

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