Poem: Lucky Sod

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

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