Michael declined the no-parking sign’s recommendation.
Easing his Volvo alongside the expanse of curb,
he thought that certainly, he was the luckiest man he knew,
the luckiest man in the city. Traffic signs might not
acknowledge the perfect luck that hovered above him
like a shining halo, that earned him each of his three jobs,
his subsequent firing from the casino that folded,
his cell phone that channeled tens of calls, invoking
honey-toned messages strained through smiles. Why, here’s one
now, making Michael’s phone glow green as Kryptonite.