Sometimes the gods of auto-correct
are your friend, like today,
as my fingers attempt to type—

in case you haven’t heard—

instead, before my fuzzy eyes
the editors behind the scenes
recast it as—

in case you haven’t heart—

which, of course, causes a jackpot
of lines to tumble down the
electronic page—

which you’re reading now—

unbidden by consciousness,
just plunking out of fingers
onto keys—

and I want to assure you—

that, of course, you have heart,
not only the blood-pumping
organ in your animate self—

but no small amount of moxie,
not to mention pluck and purpose,
in the core of your being—

that my own vascular engine
reaches for yours via paltry
words on this ephemeral page—

with great affection for the essence
of you, the nitty-gritty fortitude
and kindliness—

that you extend to so many others—

not least—thank you very much—
lucky, lucky me.