Seven, he said, was his lucky number
but to her, it was just a warped cross
and when he dumped all the coins he had won
on the bed
she asked of the bills he had lost
and he turned in a half-muttered curse
and she waited, night dress filmy
as a ghost,
until tears seeped into the purse
of his face as if all its creases could snap
open, shut, as if tears were silver to be cached,
as if she would accept again
that currency.


Draft poem for the wonderfully generous and talented Kerry O’Connor’s 50th midweek prompt on Real Toads about numbers. 

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9 Comments on “Seven”

  1. Kerry O'Connor Says:

    You have told a powerful and cautionary tale in this poem, Karin, without a word wasted in the telling. Such a striking narrative.

  2. What tragedy to live with a gambler… gaining coin and loosing bills says it all… as if you could ever win. Love the storytelling

  3. …a never ending struggle – on both sides.

  4. lynn__ Says:

    Effective in its brevity, this poem poignantly reveals pain of irresponsibility…well-crafted tale!

  5. It is a brief and yet it achieves so much in its short span. Thanks. Loved the intensity of it.

    Greetings from London.

  6. Jim Says:

    How to kill happiness with a few crass words. Liked it, K, I felt sorry for the poor fellow. I’ve been there sort of, crass words, not the gambling. They killed the romance, we ended in D I V O R C E. Though I had men’s tears and sobs, I really down deep didn’t mind. I had freedom for three years. My adopted motorcycle liked it too.

  7. I wonder how many have, are, or will deal with this number seven. Such a powerful snapshot of its agony.

  8. M Says:

    cinematic description here, k ~

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