They don't—quite—melt in the rain
but they look as if they should,
slipping over each other,
sliding deeper beneath the trash
around them in the public can.
Like sugar, maybe, or hopes
held in youth, released too soon
or clutched too long, but just held
never pursued, never known
fantasies, maybes, what if's,
"I coulda been a contender
if only—"…fill-in-the-blank;
could be time and November
tears will melt these paper slips,
lottery tickets; looks like
maybe more than two or three
months worth: Power Ball™, Lotto™,
Pick 3™, all look much alike,
though some might argue the prizes
make a considerable
difference; I don't think so,
as I poke at them with cane
tip, remembering I, too,
have been there, not completely
out of it yet, but struggling
at last to catch those dreams, make
them real for me and for those
to whom I want, not have to,
prove myself; so I can't judge,
can't condemn, just remember
what a friend said a few years
back, how lottery was really
just taxation for those sots
mathematically challenged;
yet, she bought into them, too.
Go figure, we're maybe all
of us victims of our own
disease, dreams of what ifs that
public officials and pimps
of business have realized we,
the people, are gullible
enough to line their pockets
(education in Missouri?
a sad, unfunny joke; here,
in this city, the ones with
"For Sale" signs almost outnumber
those not yet abandoned); I
push the tickets into the trash,
since for all my personal
desire, outrage I reached for
to shield me, I almost caved
and picked those tickets out, just
in case the person who tossed them
might have been as mistaken
as I find myself about me.
Hadn't quite grasped it was over—
yeah, done, fait accompli, kaput—
just couldn't watch anymore;
wired and ready for a change, so
since the pundits only offered
bewilderment, I chose breakfast
at the local Greek-American
not-quite-greasy-spoon but closest
we have around here; on the way
met a man who had it figured,
whether psychic or more attuned
to the heart of America,
maybe just less optimistic—
he knew; oh, yeah, baby, he knew—
as he sidled up to me right
before I reached the restaurant.
"Gotta a five on ya, man? Need a five."
Was dressed no worse than me, maybe
disabled but hid it better
or had something other than me
and the cane by which I get around.
Didn't know what his story was
because he didn't offer one
as pretty much always happens
in similar situations.
No reason: no momma just died
or house burned (with or without victims)
or visiting child/fiancé/
aunt/wife/granny/momma—always
these are female relatives—and
needs gas or bus fare to get home
or just from out of town, can't get home
or just outta the hospital
or just got outta the workhouse
or out of gas or out of food
or out of shelter, a story
is always, always provided;
not this time, this time it was just
"Gotta a five on ya, man? Need a five."
Usually, if I've got to spare,
it's change, maybe a buck or two,
but there was something in his face,
not threatening, not desperate,
more that five mile stare, distant look
seen on faces of college students
about to take finals they slept
through studying for but with books
under head as if perhaps they
could by osmosis absorb knowledge;
almost resigned, almost whipped but
saving a little something back
for the disasters certain as death
in the not-too-distant future.
I gave him the five; he took it
mumbled something—might have been thanks
—and walked away; I watched him go
before turning around, heading
home to coffee and toast and warmth
I needed, right then, very much.
Yeah, he knew and by the next day
so did the rest of us. I hope
he didn't waste that five on gas
or food or shelter or bus fare
or any such frivolity,
but took it to the casinos
or boats or ponies or lottery
and made himself a wad of dough
to invest in Fortune 500
company stocks or at least have
a really, really grand blowout,
one for the books, one to remember,
as the fall cannot be stopped and
a long, long winter closes in.
Royce haunts the Central West End of St. Louis, MO (USA) like a ghose who's forgotten whether he left his sheet at the dry cleaners or in some bar. His writings have appeared in Ophelia's Muse, Chaos Theory, Maelstrom, Wired Hearts, Amarillo Bay, 3rd Muse, Blood Moon, Switched On Gutenberg, Sexy Thinking, Countless Horizons, Another Night And Day Alliance, Touch, Ygdrasil, 2River View, Fireside, poetrymagazine.com, Literotica, Snakeskin and Liberty Grove. Check out his website at http://www.geocities.com/sojournerwolf/index.html.