Against the Idea of "Meant to Be"

This poem wasn't meant to be.
It didn't meet me in a bar and say
the puzzle piece things that clicked
in mine or strike me dumb with a set
of eyes. Our parents didn't know
each other in high school. This poem
wasn't written before I wrote
it. Which isn't to say that it
didn't wedge its way beneath
a part of me that didn't want
to write it. Sometimes poems do
that. It may be the afternoon,
and I'm jogging, and I see a kid
pumping another kid on the handlebars
of his bike, feel their wind
rush by my face, and the kid
getting pumped is laughing.
For days, all I can think about
are the two boys on one bike.
And here they are again, the one
pedaling so hard he's standing up.
They're going uphill now, and
the poem opens her arms, takes
them in, not because it was meant
to be but because I want to.