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.