So what if the night shakes out its loneliness like a woman airing blankets
and you crouch in a pool of desklamp light with your pencil and your glass of wine,
the day shooting through you in a rippling variety of sadnesses
and anxieties and the cracklings of brief connections,
and the music you put on is murder, plain murder on purpose,
why not get it done with, shoot, hang, hurl yourself,
why not leap at the feet of the woman you love,
the buff husband standing there with his feedbag on,
why not tell her and make it worse, worse might feel good right now,
the bullet going in at the brink of the itch,
don’t worry, you’ll survive it, what do you think,
Lottery Ticket Man,
this is your lucky night?