A classic, clichéd family holiday:
British seaside, Butlin’s chalets,
fairground rides, candy floss, and
Sun shines – not on me:
I stand in adults’ shadows.
Dad urges me to pick
a number for the bet.
There’s little time before the race.
Too small to view and appraise,
I’m left to discriminate one number
from all the other numbers,
with 50p at stake!
Time against me,
I feel the weight of the burden,
so I forgo sagacity,
and suddenly jettison a “4”,
I don’t know why.
I catch glimpses of rider and donkey framed
by spectators’ legs and thighs.
The happening is a mystery, until Dad
presents me with my winnings.
All then becomes clear:
of course I knew,
it had to be 4,
4’s a good number,
and from then on
it was mine.
I’m linking into dverse numerology. I’m still busy traveling here and there, but I’m trying to seize the motivation whenever it comes along, and I hope to catch up with reading all my fellow poets’ works soon as…