Prose Poem - "Synchronicity"

Synchronicity
---- Big Frank Dickinson

6:02 am, he wakes, when in a small city 200 miles to the south a young woman is also awaking and reaching for the alarm, as across the globe in Osaka a sushi chef reaches for his knife and is cutting a thin slice of yellow fin tuna, as that tuna's mother slices a parrot fish in half swallowing one half while the other drifts slowly to the bottom, as on the surface directly above in a sailboat's galley the ground's of the captain's coffee sink to the bottom of his cup, which has a yellow tuna and the words "TUNA MAN" written in exactly the same script as the accountant's business card, who at this very moment in Samarkand is setting his alarm and going to sleep with thoughts of the number 602 in his head, exactly the amount of money that a woman in the Couer d Lane casino is seeing pour out of a slot machine, which was made by a company called Tuna Alarm at the bottom of a hill in the industrial half of Kandarsam, Ohio, address 602 Osaka Street, on which there is also a post office, which has a PO Box number 602, in which is a letter addressed from Global Reach and addressed to Lane Chef with an appeal to save wild parrots, one of which at this very moment in Brazil is sitting on a branch across from another parrot who at this moment is waking up for exactly the 602nd time in its life, and immediatly falling down as the axes of the coffee plantation's expansion slice through the surface of the tree, the wood of which will make the next bed that he orders online for his guest room in a couple of years, days - 602.

Then 206 days later while in Ohio he meets a woman, an accountant, whose father comes from Samarkand, and sells Yellow Tuna to Japanese sushi chefs. He is alarmed that she is unhappy with her recent Brazilian bed she won in a casino, and she at his reluctance to contribute to the wild parrot fund. They then look at each other and say, in unison: "What are the odds"? They know they were meant for each other - it was meant to be.