The winning numbers for the jackpot drawn Wednesday night were 6, 7, 16, 23, 26, and the final number, called the Powerball, was 4.
Forced to reconsider his financial future after not winning Powerball, the old man scratched the fog of his past, to nurture a new idea.
World’s Slowest Professional Runner hadn’t worked out so good. Even before Kenyans.
World’s Most Famous Unknown Writer was never about money. Publish a poem and you get six free copies of a little magazine nobody reads.
This was many years ago. Back when he’d told William Jamison his Pearl District idea was just a pipe dream. Back when he told Dan Weiden, no, he didn’t like the slogan Just Do It.
Back then, the old man remembered meeting the best selling poet in Portland – maybe best-selling in all of Oregon, including Spray and Boring – on the corner of Northwest Twenty-Third and Hoyt.
The best-selling poet had printed some mushy song lyrics on pale white art paper and sold love poems as wall hangers to tourists from the West Hills and Beaverton. Love Garden. A hoe and a plow get together.
Guy made a killing on weekends after apartment owners raised rents so high, actual poets evacuated across the river. Don’t get me started.
Wanted to win Powerball so fuckin’ bad. Even had a ticket this time.
I am thinking maybe t-shirts.
Or artsy greeting cards
sold in gift shops
and art galleries.
Everywhere.
Coffee cups
for dog lovers.
Bridal registry
at Dick’s Sporting Goods.
Need start-up money.
Another ticket.