My Friends Call it Luck

You were lucky even before I knew you, he said.

I’ve always been the type to think that luck isn’t something inborn, but it does seem that luck’s dog and I have become pretty tight over the years, she replied.

The dog has fleas, I start scratching, dog gets a bone, I feel high, she added.

But this kind of luckamentation hasn’t always been good for the relationship between my pals and me.

People want you to be luckariffic, but what they mean is the unexpected triumph of good.

Stating your lucky dog gets fleas, do you mean that you suffer more than usual? That your allotment of suffering is greater than the national average?

It feels that way, though I’m no martyr. I can get off the couch anytime I want, as the dog likes to say.

Luck-o-rama sucks sometimes is what you’re saying.

A luckified life takes distance. The dog barks or gives you a kiss, you just keep one hand on its bony head—try to fight it, you’ll melt.





Kate Martin Rowe’s poems have appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal, California Quarterly, Eclipse and the online journals Chaparral and Prick of the Spindle among others. She teaches composition at LA City College and Glendale Community College and lives in Eagle Rock with her husband and two very lazy cats.

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