Luck - A Tale in Verse

Lars O’Flanaghn leads an ordinary life

In a cramped apartment with a window

Staring straight at the wall of the building opposite.

Every morning, he dimly recalls the future—

The one foretold by movies and television.

He ponders what might come to pass,

Lost in dreams above his cup of black coffee,

Trying, with the power of thought,

To shift a flowerpot

In the window of the building opposite.

The mythical Celebritarium,

A pink wisp of mist embracing the Hollywood Hills,

Hypnotizes him from afar.

It whispers: “Anything is possible, friend.

Even if someone botched your name, anything is possible.

A name can be changed; that flowerpot will move someday.”

They say that luck drifts freely from apartment to apartment,

Choosing whose invitation to accept.

Lars O’Flanaghn has lived here for five years.

And waits. He waits for it to happen.

For something to happen. Nothing has happened yet.

For luck hasn’t come.

Perhaps it got stuck in traffic.

Traffic is madness these days,

And everyone takes taxis now…

Luck… maybe it’s just running late.

Maybe it’s the name—Lars O’Flanaghn.

People might think: “A person with a name like that,

What terrible luck.”

Or they might say: “A person saddled with such a clumsy,

Mangled name surely deserves a bit of good fortune.”

And one day, luck hails a taxi.

The driver starts the meter. Click!

The driver asks, “Where to today?”

And luck replies, “I feel like wandering aimlessly today. Incognito, of course.”

The driver chuckles: “Good thing people don’t even remember

What you look like anymore.”