(for Dick)

It can happen anywhere,
a sprinkle of contentment
descending like a gentle
wash of warm, friendly rain,

when you will tease me
about such a fortunate
moment—say, walking
the sands of an island beach

toward a triangular peak
silhouetted in movie memory,
water-colored against a
salmon sky,

when there is nothing
to think about except
when to cut the fresh
pineapple waiting in

the kitchen of our for-
the-fortunate-moment
cottage, when you will
toss out a phrase that

would, in polite company,
sound derisive, critical,
unkind. But here, and on
other preciously ordinary

occasions, you stop and
whisper it like a prayer—
rich bitch—though in most
ways we’re far from it.

But right now, walking on
warm sand, or bending in
the backyard to inhale roses
on the bloom, or sharing

three desserts outdoors
on a summer evening with
family—if we think about it,
look how content we are,
how joyful these simple,
lovely moments,
basking in this wealth
beyond our imagining.