I felt lucky today at the gas pump at Cumby’s
post-snowstorm,
the pickup trucks with their dragon breath
refueling, and New Order on the outside radio
as they pulled up and parked,
got cigarettes
and the coffee from Ipanema
(available for a limited time)—
I decided the blinding sun and cracking icicles
were a sign, and invested
in the lottery:
the scratch-off cards hung
like ripe metallic fruit, not at all forbidden
because we all deserve to get lucky—
And it doesn’t matter if I get
the horseshoe, or the wild eight
because I can see that winning number
already, pulsing and alive,
glowing in 3D from its portal of scratched silver
like I’m entitled to this like a glittering birthright
I won’t say I didn’t win today
because I know how to read the signs,
and when I scratch it with the dime in my pocket,
I scratch it ALL—just to see how my desires look
in space and time, ink and paper
I’ve been rehearsing this number so long
and baby, I’m ready to roll
It’s a bright blue morning, and
today I’m an ambassador from insomnia,
carrying stardust in my smile
and supernovas in my sweatshirt pockets.
I carry the night’s dreams
with the steam clouding my window.
They are safe with me,
here in the light.
Today I feel lucky just to be here,
in this place of shiny and dark things
as my car fills with scents of coffee
and gasoline, and I’m still humming
“Thieves Like Us” as I put in the key
and as I drive off into this young day,
I know there’s a place for me
here today
because I am lucky —
I am all the winning numbers
hidden away in secret drawers
waiting for the mischief
of surprise
© Psyche Marks 2017