Seeksorrow

by Thomas Feeny

On the star–studded day
you hit the state lottery,
feeling oh so biggity
— puffed up like
a daddy penguin — you step
into O’Hara’s, yell for a tall one,
and for one bubbly millisecond
escape the need
to nail your shadow to a cross

All celestial signs proclaim
it’s time: the moment
to doff your grungy gray,
smile a bit, dig out your wallet
& spring for a round all around

To that you agree, but much
like your pa, eternal seeksorrow,
although grinning on the outside
you cannot help but chide
elusive fortune
for four long decades of delay