Blooming Luck

The harder you work,
the luckier you get

That’s how the adage goes
Fields of labour,
none in bloom

Suppose that’s the path I chose

To live and write
to scribble and scribe
to chaperone pen to paper

To grind the beans
to pour the juice,
wiping the overspill later

There’s one who reads
this verse with thrill
naïve to hope for more ?
Each night I dream
the Teds and Eds
come knocking on my door

Connexions count,
so too must skill

That blooming thing called Luck

Stories of those underdogs
whose wheels and stars lined up

Perhaps it’s time to
take to the air ;
see other paths in view
— but no . . .
there’s one who sees my flair

Tomorrow there might be two.

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