I'm lucky, yes.
Lucky I have a job, a place to live.
Lucky I get three square meals a day,
too many don't even in Northampton
let alone Zimbabwe, their bad luck on the news.
I'm lucky my parents gave me brains,
mixing their respective genes together
so I can think and write these poems.
I'm lucky that I found the dharma.
Lucky meeting Kelsang Powa on the street last week,
he walks for children, what a great example.
I'm lucky I know Emily,
I never had a daughter but she calls me dad.
I'm lucky Sadie has the shop beneath my flat.
She came all the way from Suffolk
like I did, and I met her here.
She gives me clothes, incense to burn in meditation,
through her I've made new friends as well.
How lucky's that? but then I am, I am.
Lucky my own dad still bothers
though I've been a lousy son for years.
Lucky to have two arms and legs.
Lucky (so far) to be around at all
to think about my luck, that's a miracle!
I've lived for forty years on bad food and beer,
I should be dead
and yet I'm round and pink,
though a hypochondriac, convinced each sneeze will kill me.
And I'm lucky Allen Ginsberg spent fifty years
yawping from a base line rhythmically,
he gave me something to hang this poem on.
I'm lucky to have a window with a charming view
instead of some graffiti'd wall,
or garages where kids in hoodies meet
to scuff their trainers, spit and blush at girls.
Mine looks down on a village square
where today the sun shines beautifully,
and for once there's not a breath of wind.
Those women down there in white skirts and sunglasses
look particularly sweet to my two lucky eyes.
One sits down on the grass alone
talking on her mobile and eating crisps.
How brown she is! how lovely!
and how small her feet!
If I believed my luck was that good I'd shout hello.