A Lump of Grape Jelly Drops to My Khakis

A lump of grape jelly drops to my khakis
with much marriage-wrecking fanfare.
I’m left to ruminate again: should I have run faster?
Reached with greater fervor?
Strived? Striven? 
I may not have ascended to captainhood of any industry,
may not even then have lunched with Jamie Dimon
or Diamond Lil,
or Lou Diamond Phillips

starring as nervous flyer Ritchie Valens,
but it seems less likely
that I would have landed
under this spotlit, inexpertly spackled
little proscenium,
where at the potholed intersection
of choice and raw fortune
off-brand jelly slides like an uncut ruby
out of a lumpen PB and J,
and thence unto my unironed khakis.
In another life! Under another sun!
I shall have pushed harder, lunged more longingly,
shall have raced with greater abandon
toward Gatsby’s green light,
danced with Mia Farrow
and been noisily shot to death in a swimming pool.
Well. When you put it that way.