Bad Luck;

Soil under the fingernails and
raised on sallet and poached whitetails he
dropped out of school to work a farm and
always knows how to spin a yarn when
talking his way out of this’n, or into that’n he
goes by Joe to some, Mr. Grayson to the sheriff and
his lady’s every man’s; he’s every woman’s;
they don’t know what love is when they’re drowning in it and
it’s bad luck, all of it,
misery resting where poverty beds,
if they were born with money we’d see
them staring back at us, glossy and clean
from the cover of some magazine.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s