Ode on Luck

What was I thinking when I got into cars with boys
I hardly knew and drove to houses out in the country,
where my screams would be muffled by the oaks and pines
and the teeming carpet of mushrooms, too stupid to know
I wasn't even close to being free, though I thought I was,
but all that happened was we listened to "Blood on the Tracks"
and tried to write down lyrics in the flittering of candles, and
I was dropped off at my apartment all too alive
to the possibilities of mayhem. Where was I going when I walked
down the streets in my armor of beauty and youth,
lying in the sun, and thinking of Anaïs Nin in Paris, Rimbaud
in Abyssinia, Kafka in Prague? How did I translate
my dreams into Italian? Not by planning, that's for sure,
because I had no plans unless you could call reading
a plan, or daydreaming a plan, or making soup a plan,
so if I could ask Lady Luck what was the secret
to wooing her, she might say…