Luck

Luck is for the gamblers,

to lull them in losing their easy-won money,

for the thief hedging his bets,

that the alleyway will whisk him to safety.

Luck is for the lovers to persist in their sacred art

day after day

to take each other,

sore flesh and sharpened flint of their souls.

Luck is for the believers,

for the monks that concave their foreheads

after long nights of holy submission

to see the light of their making,

or no, something subtler,

like the sound of

someone snapping their fingers

in a far-away land.

And they go out

and make an arch

and pass under it

and bare-footed

they disappear into that pilgrimage in themselves

lucky to have heard the call to prayer.

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