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,

Awarding dopamine

Often reserved for

Cell phone debutantes.

On the 3^rd reward

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker

Announcing

His name. “Gosh.” He speculated

“I’ve never won anything.”

He rushed to the cashing out station.

Bertha, the clerk,

Had

Two dimples,

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.