Powerball Poem by Morgan Michaels

Me, waiting in his private chair
lathered and sudsed in Chelsea,
my personal crimper quoted me
the current Powerball jackpot-
over a billion and a half!
winning combo to be drawn tonight.

'But, I don't play', I explained. 'Why'?
'Getting something for near-nothing
is against any religion I might ever
have had and might still have had!
Also, I don't feel lucky and might
as profitably burn the two bucks'.

But 'not to play is un-American',
he stressed in thickish Thai-English.
'Ok', I said, agreeably, 'if I win,
I'll tell you next time- but secretly-
(his wife smiling in the background)
'cuz, I couldn't take all those emails'.

And, as I am an honest man
shot from his shop to the corner
liquor store, where far many more
people stood in line to play lotto
than to buy booz. Powerball, #1'.
I said, 'and this chocolate bar'.

Then raced home to await the draw.
Lo, the time came- the winning number
4,8,19,27,34- plainly screened on TV;
7.12.41.45.54 said my little own one:
surprisingly, I hadn't won again-
hope and faith poor influencers being.

'Thank God, thank God', I cried, relieved-
for, despite the peace that cash brings,
I had effectively, if not narrowly,
avoided catastrophe. Catastrophe!
the world with its hand out- no both-
and, and, moreover, all those emails.