Fruitless

Originally published on scars.tv

In half dreams, a formless hand spins the drum
impassively, unceasingly millennia on millennia
From brass pulled for me a placid spot upon a map
pawed at paper piles, skirted slips stamped
“Poverty”
“Accident”
“Violence”
drew two nurturers from billions
friendship, college, promotion, a man who sees
visits to lions wrestling in tall grass, giant clams yawning in a dying reef.
With every whirl, my fortune and my fortunes swell
—but never me.
Beside a barren bedroom, squirming under cool sheets, eyeing other women’s winnings
I roll to one side, pull icy legs into an empty frame
watch diodes move to morning numbers
and catch the cage turn and rattle til tumbled contents rest softly still.
With stilted hope, I spy the hand unlatch, slide
in, shunt left to right,
right to left,
then pluck and call, “New house!”
Inside the shattering quiet of a vacant too-large home
I sink before the fruitless prize then
glide a gluttonous specter in dawn darkness
to peek inside
for something, some scrap wedged inside the mesh
for someone waiting for me.