Random Foursome
Just a little while ago,
that bald African-American
who's sitting at the window booth,
that young, unshaven fellow
with the earring and the cap,
that silver-haired Caucasian
daydreaming in his polo shirt
and I, were congregated,
quite by chance
around the coke machine.
'How 'bout a game of golf? '
I could have said,
though of course, they would
have thought me mad.
What are the odds the four of us
will ever meet up anywhere again?
Life keeps mixing us around
much more than we realize —
atoms in perpetual flux,
marbles in a divine game.
poem by Max Reif
Added by Poetry Lover
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