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the lottery I’m waiting for a phone call. The one that tells me I’ve won a 10-night stay
at a resort in Naples, Florida. Or the announcement I’ve been short-listed
for an award given only once a decade. Or a message to confirm
I’ll be free of medical interventions for the rest of my life, and so will everyone
I love. Or it’s my father, asking—despite the nine years he’s been gone—
to make plans for a visit to celebrate his 79th birthday. Instead,
the local auto shop is offering a special on oil changes. My bank wants to verify
a recent purchase. A recording from the phone company bears the news
of my eligibility for—you guessed it—a better phone. Today, I want to practice
abandoning my patience, like the deer who barreled through a friend’s garden
and tore the dahlias to shreds. Go to a body of water, skip something across
its surface. Get back to a practice of flossing. Read the last email Dad wrote,
with the subject “Tickets!” Write a baker’s dozen of lines, then press send.
© Maya Stein
To listen to this poem, go here.
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