Toast on the Beach

     "I met my good friend, yesterday..."

The wheel of fortune, being
Well and truly loaded, never
Turns well, never hones
Its chops on tunes
A Pythagorean understands,
Makes nothing like the music 
Of a sphere.

     "...The one who is okay..."

It never turns at all in circles,
More in arabesques
Approximating oblong gestures,
But oh my sisters, oh my brothers,
Oh my gods and little fishes,

     "...With driving drunk..."
   
Still it turns, it burns, it turns,
Like the drunkard totters, searching
For a well-lit wallet lost
Long ago and far 
From this illuminating streetlamp.

     "...Without a seatbelt..."

It turns on all of us before the end,
And if it's turned on you, believe,
Somehow it will turn on me,

     "...In the middle of the day..."

And given that our fate's not ours
To comprehend, much less command,
Then I don't know, let's share a drink
Or hoard our own, each dire to each,
In honor of our little ends.