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
