Seven
Seven
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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ManicDDaily 
March 5, 2016 at 9:30 am
You have told a powerful and cautionary tale in this poem, Karin, without a word wasted in the telling. Such a striking narrative.
March 5, 2016 at 10:10 am
What tragedy to live with a gambler… gaining coin and loosing bills says it all… as if you could ever win. Love the storytelling
March 5, 2016 at 11:14 am
…a never ending struggle – on both sides.
March 5, 2016 at 11:21 am
Effective in its brevity, this poem poignantly reveals pain of irresponsibility…well-crafted tale!
March 5, 2016 at 4:21 pm
It is a brief and yet it achieves so much in its short span. Thanks. Loved the intensity of it.
Greetings from London.
March 5, 2016 at 10:05 pm
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.
..
March 6, 2016 at 9:38 am
Well, glad that it turned out for the best, Jim. k.
March 6, 2016 at 6:03 pm
I wonder how many have, are, or will deal with this number seven. Such a powerful snapshot of its agony.
March 7, 2016 at 12:29 am
cinematic description here, k ~