Lucky Streak
You divine the fortunes of each horse
like a sorcerer and his almanac,
whilst I play hand bag top trumps with passing women.
At the bookies window I avert my eyes
from your stake in pin number etiquette.
Place a pound each way on a name that takes my fancy.
The winnings rain coins like a slot machine pay out.
By the third race you regard me as if Satan is my tipster.
‘Pick another’, I close my eyes and jab
at the heraldry of jockeys’ silks.
While men in bespoke suits and women in Chanel bray,
we watch with sniper coolness as my horse glides to victory.
You urge me to ride my luck but I am still expecting it to run dry.
Nevertheless, leave carrying a bag ripe with cash.
Silence on the drive home as you calculate the various odds
that fantastic as light years, I have defied this afternoon.
I ignore your parting plea to ‘play the lottery this once’.
Now a suspicion that my life’s allocation of good fortune
paid out in a single dividend that day.
