i, lost my first bet with a razor it left pencil marks on my mind
i, understood this relationship of sunshine & sneakers was on a meter
shelved by talking rain, the ants discovered there was a more direct highway to Hostess
in a flight of cobwebs the sketchpad lost— traces were meant for fireflies and trapped fairies, only
it made no sense to be first luck only knows patience—
if the wind caught open scars and distant checkbooks there was no indication it was broke
until the black-masked shaman showed his hand— in it were stones and ancestors and placid rain “harvested luck” that’s what the shaman said
who was I to argue? luck was something that leapt from a moment and onto a kiss…
Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash