If we could be persuaded that luck is just
A species of good fortune which springs from chance,
We'd feel less envy for the charmed life,
Wouldn't regard with such mixed emotions

The friend who always lands in the perfect job,
Who finds support whenever he needs it most,
Whose fairy godmother is clearly
Sedulous, state-of-the-art, and doting.

But it is hard to credit fortuity.
Whatever happens to us is, we suspect,
Part of a running commentary
Upon our character. Were we rightly

Adjusted to the cosmos, we would be spared
The mean boss, the destructive relationship,
So easy is it to imagine
God's weighed our soul and has found it wanting.

Our earthly judges, meanwhile, are apt to muse,
Whenever sand is kicked in the blameless face,
'Fate seems like such a nice boy; surely
Something you did must have roused his ire.'

Accorded such reflections, what can one do
But warmly shake the counseling hand and say,
'Thanks so much for your insight; Job's own
Comforters couldn't have been more helpful!'

These days I think that even the Calvinist
Must cease to worry whether or not he's graced
And feel luck, like the rain in Matthew,
Randomly falls on the just and unjust.

Insidious sad spectre who softly asks,
'Why aren't you famous, rich?' old careerist-priest,
Enjoy your mansioned malversations.
Henceforth, your servant intends an exit

Out through the avenue of linden trees.
Albeit the Lord visit the fathers' sins
Unto, yea, the fourth generation,
Boughs dispatch leaves windward, willy-nilly.