Miguel Wins the Lottery

At the age of eighty, with a left hand

Uncontrollably shaking, oblivious

To his twenty years to go, Miguel Completas

Jackpotted nine million. His money came to him

In a dream the morning of the win.

It had a moon-shaped head of flapping green notes

And limbs of fives and fifties, that skipped loose to sail like leaves

Away from its body and past Miguel’s nose:

Fresh, bright notes of primal green, on a body

Of glowing papier-mache – the money stood

Hands on hips in the yard below

Miguel’s flat, round-headed and faceless.

‘Well, Miguel, you seem quiet – aren’t you pleased

To see me?’ Miguel sat on a bench.

His foot was tingling. ‘Fifty years

I called on you, you stupid fuck,’

He said. ‘Why weren’t you here

When I needed you for Calderon’s

Transplant? Or when I got fired by

The evil Francisco? Or when I wanted to send

Benito to college?’ The money

Slapped its forehead. ‘Miguel,’ it said. But Miguel

Had lit a match, and he brushed its crunching flame

Along the money’s hips, and the money

Was engulfed, soundlessly.

In the morning Miguel awoke worried,

But in the evening the money came, unoffended.

Published in The North, 2003