You can count on this mean old world
to hide a rattler beneath the steps 
to the hot tub on a moonless night,

vibrate the penny off the rail
just as train wheel comes along
to flatten it,

open a hole in the grocery sack with the limes,
put the winning Powerball numbers 
in your neighbor’s head,

and, the last straw, rain on lawn mowing day, 
exiling old Jim indoors, staring out the bay window, 
hands in pockets, 

cursing every rotten thing in this life,
including his wife, who’s knitting the scarf 
with which she’ll strangle him.