Questions overstocked the fellows gape,
Bordering his naked
Cuticle, contrasted against
Pink finger points, acknowledging lottery misgivings.
He still gripped quarters,
Fed them to slot machines,
Often reserved for
Cell phone debutantes.
On the 3rd reward
A voice crackled over the loudspeaker
His name. “Gosh.” He speculated
“I’ve never won anything.”
He rushed to the cashing out station.
Bertha, the clerk,
Attributing gaunt features
To an otherwise bloated appearance.
“Ah.” She stated. “I heard your name
On the speakers. You’re famous.”
“I guess I am…”
He took his winnings outside,
Crouching Inside the city fountain’s profile,
Spread them like a pigeon wing.
“This outta make me free.” He decided.
The winnings blew off, skipped alongside foliage
To places unknown. He stared at his reflection,
Distorted by ripples, made from the wind
Which took his treasure. “I think I’m the same.”
He decided and went home.
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