The rules insist that when you drop your toast,
It lands with jelly side against the ground,
Unless, the cynic offers as riposte,
Through luck, it lands the other way around.
Because the inconvenience and the mess,
Delay the meal as one cleans off the rug,
Those vexing memories the mind impress;
Good fortune is forgotten with a shrug.
Exceptions frequently disprove the rule,
Yet we prefer the patterns of the bad,
So never let me be the kind of fool
Who misses all the things to make one glad.
But on some days, the good leaves one nonplussed,
Like when the dropped toast lands upon its crust.
Inspirations: this morning’s breakfast (yes, really); “Two Ships,” by Adam Gopnik. The New Yorker, 6 January 2014.