I Still Call It Fate Poem by Luke Smith

10 years! And still the perfect host, keeping
The drinks flowing as I drunkenly proclaim
To anyone who'll hear that we will name
Our boy after that 50s actor. My 'creeping
Gatsby' slowly surfaces: drink by drink,
guest by guest. I exclaim then slur, crash
Then muse. A thousand things at once. Until I splash
Port over your dress. You don't even blink.
Tell me, when the colleague whose name you forget
Shakes her head in disapproval as if to say
'You two? ' do you mention, in the stoic way
I admire so much, about the day we met:
How I waited with you when your train was late.
You blamed the weather, I still call it fate.