Losers All

The losing lottery ticket curls in the drizzle,
its former hopeful, shiny dream reflecting back on itself in somber contemplation.
Hastily scratched with an unsteady hand,
whose nicotine-stained fingers faced failure in grasping the coin of conquest,
while trodding the muddy walk back from the corner market,
where airline shots of many colors glittered – again, hopefully –
with illusions of much grandeur,
and relief,
and escape.

There they lie now,
amongst the cigarette butts and dog shit.
All spent.
Every single, solitary, state-supplied nickel and dime,
scratched and sucked and suckled down the hatch of heedless need.
In the dark, you stumble back to the trailer,
the old man’s dog barks through the thin tin of his own wrecked life.
Inside, your weight crashes down on the stained mattress,
the TV tells you many things you believe,
and more you do not.

You fumble for a cigarette,
and count the days down to the dole that’s coming to you.
Oh, man, is it coming to you.
You’re owed that money,
For all you’ve done,
to make this world a better place,
by your very existence,
your very stinking existence.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

You’re gonna win that god-damned lottery.
And then they can all go to hell.

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