Luck

He came down from the mountains,

Walked through the outskirts,

Walked through the town,

Approached the ocean as he would a lover,

Confident but exposed, appreciative,

He fell to his knees,

Pulled from his breast pocket the tired sheet,
That bore his achievement in this life:
He was richer than God.
He could buy Heaven if he wanted to.
Clumsily he reoriented the paper this way and that,
But he could not make heads or tales of it,
Save for a quickly fading memory of what it meant,
He laid it gently in a tide pool beside,
"Take care of that paper you organisms in there!
I hereby promote you to the top of the pile!"
He backed into the foam,
Spirals adapting and learning of his shins, then his knees,
"You are richer than God now!
You could buy Heaven if you wanted to!"