<DIV>“In <I>A Little Luck</I>, Jeff Worley presents that rarest of commodities—a voice encyclopedic in its attentions, clever, self-aware, and deeply likeable. Worley’s humor throughout is dark and smart, his phrasings elegant. I would give <I>A Little Luck</I> to the reader who loves the work of Ted Kooser or Rodney Jones. I’d give this book to the reader who does not yet realize he loves poetry.”—Sandra Beasley, Final Judge<BR><br> THE DAY AFTER MY DEATH<BR><br> —after lines by Michael Van Walleghen<BR><br> The moon, stars and weather<BR> will happen as they always have,<BR><br> though surely with my breath gone<BR> the wind, in some slight measure,<BR><br> will falter. Absent my footsteps<BR> the earth will feel along its spine<BR><br> a momentary shiver of abandonment.<BR> And my friends? Won’t they gather<BR><br> with me again, in whatever purple-<BR> swagged room, for wine and stories,<BR><br> some of them nearly impossibly true?<BR> Meanwhile, the mailman, humming<BR><br> like a bee in a blossom, will slip<BR> my name into the metal box:<BR><br> an unsigned note from <I>The Paris Review</I><BR> saying, simply, <I>Sorry</I>.<BR><br><br></div>