A sure thing

When he rubbed his eyebrow
at the roulette table
it signified nothing.
This was honest-to-goodness luck.

He gambled the lot
on consecutive blacks,
a causeway of chips
stacked double.

As he rushed to cash in,
he was sweating philosophy:
stuttering at the thought
of finite fortune;

he imagined the rest of his life:
keys snapping off in Ferrari doors,
plasma screen TVs on the blink,
trophy wives drowned in the pool.