If you were a bet, I suppose it would be long odds
when it came to my chances. Still, I have learnt
there’s always more to a harmless flutter, win
or lose, than what you walk away with. Hindsight
is accumulative. You told me once I was profligate.
If that were true, I’d offer this, a personal philosophy.
Stake you with my broken rosary against your knee
in the palm of my hand. To think – to span eternity
to find it was no simple bet at all. The broken
chain worth more than just a single bed. Nothing
needs to be real like Shakespeare’s second-best.
God plays no dice where autumn leaves
Golgotha’s golden light. The beads roll
like a voice inside my head. Needs to be real.
A random nose bleed, as red as a letterbox,
easy to fix or to snap. These tiny bones.
You’d take that as a gift, maybe.