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