Winning ticket

It was one of those

Lottery tickets

Where they made you –

Or you made you –

Scratch off a layer

To see if you had won.

I had been trying to

Scratch off layers

For as long as I could

Remember.

But I hadn’t

Won yet.

I must be due,

I figured.

I had been given that ticket

As a gift, a gesture,

A thank you for something

I could no longer remember.

It had cost someone

Four dollars

And that was exactly

What I won

When I scratched away

The layers.

I wasn’t greedy,

But four dollars was

Not even enough

For a decent coffee.

The cashier at the drugstore

Asked if I wanted

To play again,

As though the first time

Had been so much fun.

She told me that someone

Had won five hundred

Earlier that day.

I shrugged, why not

And traded my winnings

For another layer,

My earnings

For another task.

But I didn’t scratch it

In front of her

Because I didn’t want to be

Another story told

To another customer

To perpetuate

The con.

Somewhere outside

I dropped that ticket.

And just like that

It became something

I could no longer have.

Suddenly it seemed

Certain that it

Was the ticket

That would take me

Out of all of this.

I had no way of knowing

If that was true,

And that gave the feeling

So much more power.

The unknown can seduce

Like nothing else

I have encountered.

Absence of proof

Was not

Proof of absence

But you could have

Fooled me.

It was only ever the things

I had lost

That I deemed to be

The ones that would have

Gone the distance.

Convenient how that worked

Wasn’t it?

The not knowing killed me

Or would have

Or will

Eventually –

So I retraced my steps

Staring like a maniac

At the pavement.

I had walked on concrete

Just like this

So many times before.

I had taken

Millions of steps

And never actually

Seen what had been

Beneath my feet.

I saw it now,

But there was no ticket.

I was just a maniac

Searching for layered paper

Convinced of an outcome

It would contain

Based on no evidence

At all.

It was then that

I saw it

In the middle of

An intersection.

I watched as cars

Ran over it,

Crushed it.

They didn’t know

But knew

It was

My ticket out.

The lights changed,

I picked it up,

Bending casually

Caring for appearances,

As I crossed.

I pocketed it,

More securely this time;

Something to be revealed

Once safe at home.

The first ticket that I had

Never asked for,

The second a chance

I hadn’t been able

To resist.

Those layers

Unwanted, lost, then

Found

The romance of it all

Was too much

To resist.

How could something

With a story like that

Not be a winner?

At the kitchen bench

I stood with a knife.

Under all those layers

After all that effort

With the unseemly

Narrative that went

With it

There was nothing.

Not a dollar, not a cent

The plot meant nothing

If the ending

Was a bust.

They say that on

Bukowski’s headstone

It says ‘Don’t try’

I don’t know

If that’s true

But believe it is,

And think that he

Was probably onto

Something.

We weave the narrative

Scratch away the layers

Hunt for the truth

For resolution

For absolution

But when all

Is said and done

It’s just like

That ticket.

Just words

And bullshit

With nothing

underneath.