Lucky Harahan

Lucky Harrahan
was not. Stood he
in the rain
(forecast:sunny)
in a lamp-less alley
behind the racetrack.

Big wet polka dots
plashed boldly on his
proud plaid jacket.
He squished sullenly.

He wore his Racing Form
umbrella-wise
perched pup-tent
on his head.

He knew, once, how to
fashion a printers cap
from any odd scrap.
An honest trade
was not, however,
in his cards.

He pulled out a fortune
of folded horses,
damp and loveless
matchbooks, bits of
primordial lint.

His car was here.
His keys were not,
rabbit foot fled
for greener pockets.
He swore then,
honestly, never to
gamble again on a single
set of keys.