Lottery Ticket and Fuck All

By MICHAEL CATHERWOOD

Guess I should forget to buy
the lottery ticket every time
I buy my generic cigs
at the Get ’N Go. There’s no chance
my get-rich dream will happen.
Like to think that way though.

I’m lucky at shit like that time
I won a Sony boom box
at my son’s little league
all-the-trimmin’s baseball
banquet. I still play old
Styx and Grand Funk tapes on it.

I’d buy a cool house in the suburbs
and fill a room with Jim Beam.
I’d splurge for hard pack
Pall Malls; get my brother’s lung
fixed; fill my new hemi monster truck
with all the M&Ms my girls could eat.

Damn, all my stuff’s broken
down in front of my shitty garage:
the F-150’s bleeding rust,
the old Toro’s engine
is frozen solid like cement;
you can see the road

through the floor of my wife’s Cavalier.
That ping pong ball can go
ahead and dance. I’ll get rich
and sit by the phone watching
fuck all on the giant flat screen, practice
all day long how to tell people “Nope.”

Michael Catherwood‘s poems have appeared in AGNI, Borderlands, Burning Bush 2, Louisiana Literature, The Midwest Quarterly, New Plains Review, Sycamore Review, Red River Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and other journals. His first book was Dare. He teaches at Creighton University and is an associate editor at Plainsongs, where he writes essays.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 09 here.]

Lottery Ticket and Fuck All

Related Posts

Palm tree and building at dusk

Monsoon

URVI KUMBHAT
From my window I see a boy shaking the bougainvillea / for flowers. My parents talk of pruning it. They talk / of little else. The tree, spilling wildly past our house into / the gulley—where boys come to smoke or piss.

The Hundertwasser House in Vienna

Etude No. 2 and Etude No. 3

KIM CURTS MATTHEUSSENS
in Rome a monumental marble typewriter / ticked out their story into the sky: two lovers / devour time. she lay on the lawn near Trajan's / column. he plucked letters from her dress, / her hair, served them to her by hand, by mouth.

Image of an intensely green trailhead.

December 2022 Poetry Feature: Kevin McIlvoy

KEVIN McILVOY
On mine spoil. In debris fields / of asphalt and concrete and brick. / Upon sites of chemical spills. / Along lifeless riverbanks. / In clonal groves so hardy you / have to steel yourself for years / of killing to kill one acre. / Where construction crews rake off / the surface