Untelling

Wake up expecting to be a billionaire.
Well, not expecting; hoping
the way we hope those blue lights 
in the mirror aren’t for us.
Asked once if I’d rather be rich or famous,
I spoke the latter, another dream
dissolving in blurry eyes 
of a morning like this while I search
for last night’s lottery numbers &
find Powerball’s website blank,
drawing delayed because
of vague concerns about security.
I’ll have to wait a few hours
to be rich, or not to be rich,
continue not being rich
after I’ve shuttered the windows
against a zombie hoard of dead hopes.

Meanwhile, it’s Election Day, &
I need to vote for candidates I don’t know 
who can’t be worse than those I do.
Tough to make that call 
with the status of my finances
in a state of quantum superposition.
Were I suddenly wealthy,
would I change my opinion &
vote for money men?
It’s as possible as matching six 
twice-random numbers
on a slip of paper barely larger
than a pocket bible, & smaller
that one of my books that doesn’t sell.