THE
WINNERS
We are seated at a table
With the Super-Ball winners,
A couple in their sixties
Who are 300 million odd
dollars
Richer than we are.
He was a plumber or
electrician,
Some sort of tradesman. She
A housewife with bad teeth.
They frequented a local bar.
Someone else bought the
tickets
To whom they promised a million
dollars
When it turned out they had the
numbers.
Then reneged, a lawsuit
settled
Out of court. It was in the
papers.
Of course, we don’t bring that
up.
Just listen while he
expounds
On their world travels, flashing
a
Pinky ring with a diamond
Like a trapdoor. She’s
bejeweled
As well and has new teeth
Regular as a picket fence.
They live in a new house
In a gated community
Where none of their old
friends
Can get at them.
THE RADIATION CENTER
She has the earliest
slot.
Seven o’clock.
He accompanies
her
Sports shirt pulled
taut
Over a pendulous
belly.
She’s got that
hairdo
Cheap salons
impose
On women her
age.
He fidgets,
worries.
A nurse comes in,
explains
The tech is on the way, the machine was
down
We’re running a little
late.
She’s changed
Into the blue paper
gown.
The reddened flesh of her upper
breast
Looks raw, looks
scribbled.
He doesn’t notice, his
mouth
A bad parenthesis, a
frown
Engraving the
battlements
He’s about to
mount.
“We’ll miss the
breakfast.
The best
machine.”
But she gets in
And out in time to suit
him.
Off they go
To pull those
levers,
To hope the quarters
pour
In jingle jangles of
distraction.
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