Serendipity came my way, on a blowy Lancaster day

Blown in all the way from Cal-i-forni-i-a, an idea of a girl

That I kept in my head, long after she was dead 

Except in great extremity when I'd gamble all that I had

On her not being sad. But, maybe, I was wrong and Jenny

Had sung a bitter-bitter-song. A song of her declining days

Drifting into a frustration-opoid-filled Palo Alto haze of days.

I hope she'd had the strength to leap over all the barriers

On the way to a few love-soaked days spread over years

And years. Interspersed, as is usual, with tears and fears 

That congregated at funeral-hospital-family-closeted visits,

I hope that she found some people who she really loved.

Time is the currency of our lives, and if we hope to survive,

We need to see our reflection in the eyes of those we love.