Poem: Lucky Sod

Just cos I ain’t settled for a life of hustling,
bustling on the scrounge -
‘I’m a lucky sod.’
Felt the skin of a four-leaf clover,
or the itch of my right palm.
 
After all those years,
of a tough, graft.
Working past the ticker.
What do we say is lucky?
 
The restless dusks,
sour galls,
nails pricked to nubs,
fractured tusks?
 
What do we say is lucky?
The life I fought to secure…
rather than bulging at six months?
N tommy k smeared on me toast.

©️ photo from Unsplash

Have a story to share? Contact us.
featherpen-blog@hotmail.com    

Also, don't forget to follow us on Instagram!
@featherpenblog