by Megan Grumbling

Chance glistened in the blue spruce bower so near
my doze: fresh champagne, suddenly, and one
glass flute in wait.  Fizzing awake, I veered
in wistfully, leaned thirsting for the stun
of finding myself tapped to catch the pour.
Later, out at the show, the singing girls
bid proxies pass us popcorn, daisies, fourths
of oranges as they wove warps and lures
from their trombones, accordions, guitars.
Reach down, they called, so we all felt beneath
our folding chairs.  Next to me, where I’d perched
not two minutes before, the winning gleam
arose, the whimsy glimmering almost
upon me, all odds winking.  Ah, so close.