Juju? Is this a sign, God?

I wrote this poem after an incredibly weird coincidence.  I happened to be listening to the Beatles’ “Come Together.”  Good song, strange lyrics.  Anyway, at the same time, I was reading a book.  And just as the song said “juju eyeball,” I read the word “juju.”

I’ve never even seen the word “juju” in print.  

 Heck, I really didn’t even know what it meant.

 And in case you don’t either, here’s what my dictionary said:   Juju: An object used as an amulet or charm in West Africa, OR, the supernatural power ascribed to such an object.

That said, why on earth would something like that happen?  And what does it mean?  Why exactly would God want me to pay extra attention to the word “juju?”  Other coincidences are equally useless for me.  About 1 in 4 times, when I’m thinking about a song or even humming it, lo and behold, when I turn on the radio, that’s the song that’s playing.  It’s extraordinary sometimes, and pretty cool, but also generally pretty useless. 

But useless or not, coincidences are astounding.  Our lives tend to float in confusion and ambiguity, and coincidences are like little nails that tack us to reality in our ephemeral worlds.  They pull you down to reality by giving you a jolt or shock, by reminding you that you’re not floating around in nothingness, but that instead you could run into something familiar at any time, that paths are crossing everyday.  And they are, even though coincidences go largely unrecognized.  Yeah, the occasional one ends up in the Guinness Book of World Records, you know, when long-lost quintuplets all just happen to be visiting Niagara Falls at the same time and all run into each other.  But smaller ones go ignored everyday. 

But yeah, I should just give you the poem.  It definitely needs editing, since I spat it out in only about ten minutes.  But in any case, here it is:

Coincidences

You are on a highway in Nevada,
so grown-over that grass springs undisturbed
from the expansion cracks in the pavement.
It is straight, so straight, in fact, that
you steer with only a pinkie hooked
in the bottom of the wheel, with a can of Pepsi
in your other hand.  You’re doing 80,
but you could do 100 while reading a novel
or taking a nap or changing clothes
and still be safe.  You haven’t passed anyone
since the diner 150 miles ago. 

So why is it that while you drive, distracted,
while you are reading your map or novel,
or changing clothes or napping, while you’re
thinking about other things and watching
the sun setting in your rearview mirror,
why is it that at that moment, a car is stalled
in the middle of an intersection just feet away?
Why do you collide with the only car you’ve seen
on this road?  Why do surprises crop up
where there should be no surprises?

And why is it that when you’re traveling in Paris,
or London, or Greece, you run into your boss,
or your neighbor, or your old high school friend?
Why, when you’re reading an unusual word,
does the song you’re listening to say
that exact word?
Why do men who live at opposite ends of the earth
meet and find that they happen to be long-lost twins?
Why, when I open my mouth, do the words
that I am about to say pop out of your mouth?

And as we wait on this road for the tow truck
to come and clear our cars away,
as we wait, shivering, shocked, astonished,
why is it that we do not say more, acknowledge
this astounding crossing of paths, the intersection
that weird fate has brought us to?