Maybe I should ride on luck, from now on, and be funky about it at the table, as if no plan ever existed, as if I was born foolish, blank, a newbie learning to surf the moment, dodging speeding cars, attempting to cross the big city avenue.
Maybe I should depend on her lithe shape, her limber walk, her stealth under the silk dress, and let her manage all the bets, the speed of the roulettes.
Why, I probably shouldn’t be shuffling far-out dreams that barely whisper vain desires, mild suggestions that fade rapidly in timelessness, at the casino that never sleeps.
Might as well throw my chips without much expectation; her outcomes may still align with a cause in the realms of chance, but this rookie cannot yet fathom them.
Maybe I should keep on going, making my way through this endless hall, laugh at my inability to find an emergency exit, as I fumble into smokers’ dens, new and shiny slot machines, and private corners I wasn’t invited to.
Could it be luck is more than a lady dealer, but rather a magnificent beast of wonders, who delights herself by inducing states of shock, stunning us into humility with the grace of her underhanded stratagem, the covertness of her secret mission?
Maybe I should cling to her sleek dress, ride along even if troubled, frustrated, and helplessly hoping for the big cash in, that might or might not happen, because she never promised. And in the meantime, I’ll strive to stay poised, as does this lady in the ruby satin gown, her raven eyes, and her appalling tolerance of our tackiness, our greed, as she transforms it to funk and game.
