Lottery Poem by Caroline Misner

A couple sits beside me
in the food court of the mall,
scouring the grey sticky film
from lottery tickets
with the tips of their keys.

They pause to compare notes,
check numbers, the winning draws.
I wonder what card the woman
drew; she can barely breath.
She is tethered to a tin

grey canister the same dull
pewter as the lottery tickets.
A clear plastic tube snakes
to her nostrils and pumps air
into her wheezing lungs.

She takes it with her everywhere
she goes, pushes it with her
hand cream and electric fans
and cotton tea towels and garbage
bags in her Wal-Mart shopping cart.

They make plans on what
they will do with their winnings;
the lotto lucky draw is each
Saturday night. Perhaps,
they can travel again,

see the world before they die;
time is running out, her air
is running low, her husband’s
hands are blistered, red, and raw
from work in some ghastly mill.

What number did she draw
in what lottery? To be sitting
here beneath the potted palms
and wincing florescent lights
scratching the film off lottery tickets.