Currency of Luck

The man in rubber boots doesn't care

for the wishes or the weight of the air.

He uses a shovel made of plastic grit

to scrape the basin and be done with it.

I watch from the bench near the pretzel stand

as he hauls up a bucket of muck and sand.

A dime rolls loose, slick with algae and slime,

a bright, green-filmed witness to a waste of time.

We drop our copper and we hold our breath

as if a shallow pool could cheat a death

or fix the rent. But the water is cold,

and the luck is just something that's bought and sold.