Luck - Poem by Emlyn Wentwhistle
I carry with me
a small wedge
of Connemara marble
Were it not for the peculiarity
of its color
-a kind of jade green
peppered with gray
-it might easily be mistaken
for a piece of hard candy.
when I lie
dazed and humiliated
in a pool of my own purple blood,
having stepped carelessly into the path
of an oncoming automobile,
I'll still have enough strength
and the presence of mind
to reach into my pocket and find
it isn't there.
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