The lottery vendor who shouts “The big one”

possesses I don’t know what depths of God.

The lips all pass by. In a wrinkle

tedium sprouts its notthistime.

The vendor passes by hoarding, perhaps

in name only, like God,

among Tantalic loaves, the human

impotence of love.

I see him in this wretch. And he could have

given us heart;

but whatever luck he holds out in

his hands, hawking loudly,

like a cruel bird, will end up

somewhere this bohemian god neither

knows nor cares about.

And I say on this tepid Friday that bears

the sun downhill on its back:

why would God’s volition have dressed up

as a lottery vendor!