He’s 40 and glued to football pixels
He slides his fingers into the depths of his wallet
to slide me a crumpled daily five.
Every day, his saliva spews out
jersey numbers of the winning team,
mumbling that I “buy myself something nice”
The cashier prints out the Powerball;
He tells me that I might have a gambling problem
I tell him that I’m not the one who is
Exchanging 9-to-5 paychecks into pipe dreams
Shotgunning whiskeys and throning the
Living room sofa with Malboro longing.
Convenience store door chimes ring wearily
As I pick up my Cadbury’s chocolate bar,
Sickly sweet and momentary like all types of want.