Most people don’t know this about me,
But sometimes, I like to play the lottery.
It’s not that I expect to win, even though
That would be pretty nice. I like the idea of
Sharp clothes, a fancy place to live,
A car that’s not as beat up as Betty
(A loved 2001 Silver Honda Accord)
And a way to travel at the snap of a finger.
Not to mention all the glorious, glorious, food.
(Forgive me, for I haven’t had breakfast today
But I do like writing poems while just a little hungry;
It gives me an odd creative edge in anticipation
Of nourishment later.)
Anyway, I digress. As usual.
I know that I would easily get tired of the Mazerati,
My walk-in closet of custom-fitted suits,
I’d get exhausted by all the planes, trains, cab rides
To snooty places, and even tropical beaches, those
Would even get boring after a while.
Foie gras, well, my heart would never forgive me.
That stuff is delicious but it’s pretty much meat butter.
It’s the anticipation I love, the idea of possibilities
Strewn out across the table in front of me,
My imagination spewing hundred dollar bills at my feet
Everywhere I walk.
But here’s the truth:
I’ve never earned a single cent
Writing shitty poetry that nobody reads
But goddamn, do I love
daydreaming.
D.H. Lee
