WISHBONE

I had my suspicions when the Humvee

muscled me off the on-ramp

and when the bald maitre d’

sat the blonde before me

even though I arrived first.

And then again just yesterday

when my passive-aggressive boss took credit 

for the client I had landed.

But this morning was when I knew

once and for all:

that the whole kit n’ kaboodle

the nine yards

the can of worms

the kettle of fish

the ball of wax

the deck

and the great shebang itself

were rigged

from the git-go.

I knew this when my love,

whom I call Schmuggie,

confessed that the wish she had made

on the wishbone we just played tug-of-war with

was a wish for herself only and not us

and that - and this is the part 
she really felt bad about -

that when she handed me the bone

she knew she’d win - which she did - because

she gave me the brittle end and took

the stronger, sturdier half for herself.

I couldn’t help it, you understand, don’t you?

she said by way of an apology.

Yes, I understand, Schmuggie.

I really do!

Because, despite my own doubt

and my refined sense of cynicism,

I know that the human heart

is a complicated instrument 

prone to its own flights of fancy

like a bird

whose bones protect it

from the power of its own wings –

or in our case, Schmuggie, love

and trust - and too little

wishful thinking.