The Lover Remembereth Such as He Sometime Enjoyed and Showeth How He Would Like to Enjoy Her Again

I found this poem in the 1980s and neglected to write down who wrote it. Its title paraphrases that of a poem by the 16th-century writer Thomas Wyatt, though this poem turns out wistful rather than sardonic like Wyatt's. It's a sonnet of dive bars and lost love in contemporary language that's easy to understand. The next-to-last line hits me in the heart.

The Lover Remembereth ... 

Luck is something I do not understand:
There were a lot of things I almost did
Last night. I almost went to hear a band
Down at the Swinging Door. I, almost, hid

Out in my room all night and read a book,
The Sot-Weed Factor, that I'd read before.
Almost, I drank a pint of Sunny Brook
I'd bought at the Dickson Street Liquor Store.

Instead I went to the Restaurant-on-the-Corner
And tried to write, and did drink a beer or two.
Then coming back from getting rid of the beer
I suddenly found I was looking straight at  you.

Five months, my love, since I last touched your hand.
Luck is something I do not understand.

Cheers.