Luck Poem by Emlyn Wentwhistle

I carry with me
a small wedge
of Connemara marble

for luck.

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.

I'm hoping

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.