I remember the last one, July 7th, 1977, very well. I was working as a fry cook at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant on Aurora Avenue in Seattle, the summer before my first year of college. It was a gorgeous morning. Sunlight was streaming through the front windows as I watched the waitress mix me a strawberry milkshake by hand (my breakfast).
I’m seeing sevens everywhere.
Not just sins, virtues, wonders, rolls
of the dice — but holes
in the head, castaways, dwarfs, naked-eye
planets. What does it mean? Notes
in a musical scale, colors of the rainbow,
the number of dirty words you
can’t say on the air. Most people
choose seven when asked for a number
between one and ten. No coincidence there are
seven nuclear powers, seven heavens, seven
spots on a ladybug wing. There’s Beckham,
Mantle, Bond. Seven Vivian Sisters, seven
points on a sheriff’s star. Yes, even Libra,
September, left field. Continents, seas, days.
Habits of the highly effective,
hills for a city, years to an itch.