The sun’s in charge of passion, the moon, luck.
For a garden of abundance, prune luck.
Young rock stars gyrate to hormone-fueled crowds.
In low-budget lounges, singers croon, Luck
be a Lady. An army vet downs Scotch.
sole survivor of his whole platoon, luck
feeling like a curse when he wakes screaming.
Sad, sulky, the unfavored impugn luck.
Success due to prep school, powerful friends,
trust fund. According to the tycoon, luck.
Wallpaper peels in the cold-water flat.
In April, her boyfriend left. In June, luck.
The homeless man passed out in newspaper.
No god or patron to grant a boon, luck
as out of reach as Tantalus’s fruit.
A raven brings news of death, a loon, luck.
Man keeps from his son the years he shadowed
death, drawing up bliss from a burnt spoon, luck
always about to run out. Doesn’t each
gambler kiss the dice and whisper, Soon, luck?
Bugs Bunny blown away and then back, face
smudged. What we’d all give for such cartoon luck.
Unrelenting sunlight on torn-up grass,
spent shells. The battlefield body-strewn, luck
long-gone. Wall Street traders shorten wires,
tweak algorithms. Try to fine-tune luck.
You should have learned by now, Stone, that The Fates
don’t care. Wasted breath to importune luck.