a poem by Rebecca Schumejda

The Day I Lost the Lottery

It is only 9 am and I already know
the odds are against me,
but pick twelve numbers anyway.

The man behind me in line,
carrying a bouquet of beef jerky
in one hand and a twelve pack
of beer in the other, wishes me luck.

I meet my husband to help him
spackle, sand, sponge and tape
walls before painting.
We’re trying to make it work.

When it is time to paint, we start
at opposite ends of the room;
he reminds me about drips, lines,
splattering; all the mistakes
possible. I close my mouth

against the breeze, like a fluctuating
interest rate, blowing in and out
through open windows.
He's been on a dozen interviews,
but no one calls back besides
the debt consolidation pushers.

So when we meet halfway,
underneath the front windows,
with two paintbrushes and
nothing to say besides hello there,
he takes the cigarette from between
his lips and holds the long ash
over the open paint can
just to see me squirm.

© by Rebecca Schumejda
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010