Being Careful What I Wish For
A new poem
Staring at the squares on the Euro Millions ticket
I’m presented with a choice of five numbers
between one to fifty and don’t forget the stars.
I must make a decision to pick at random
any numbers as they enter my head or choose
birthday dates of loved ones or the houses where
they live. Perhaps the number of my neighbour’s
beaten up Peugeot 205 will bring me fortune
and the World will open up to me presenting
possibilities I really cannot imagine and of course
problems. I’ll need a good lawyer preferably a
specialist on corporate law to help manipulate
vast sums of money. He will be eye-watering expensive
and then there’s the accountant presenting mammoth
bills to avoid mammoth tax grabs. How to keep it
from the family and my sudden new friends toting
pan-hands. I’ll need to get a different lawyer to deal
with paternity suites from women I never knew
and false claims for sexual misconduct with aging
choir boys. I’ll have to move, but it should be nothing
too ostentatious otherwise they might kidnap my kids
and I’ll have to surreptitiously inform the police because
they’ll kill them one at a time for every day I delay paying
and police are useless and I become childless with a bitter
wife who has a breakdown and runs off with a gypsy
who tries to blackmail me because it was my fault she
overdosed in the bedroom of his caravan in Andalusia.
The pressure begins to get to me. I empty the bottle
of Highland Park I bought for guests who never came
because they were never invited and thought I thought
I was too good for them now I’m a rich stuck-up prick
and get in my GT Mustang and drive to the nearest Tesco
to get another bottle, but instead take out an Afro-Caribbean
women pushing a fully loaded twin pushchair and skid
on their spilled blood and bury the nose of the Mustang on
the trunk of a protected thousand-year old specimen
English Oak killing it and myself from multiple head and
Internal injuries making national news and vicious headlines.
For the next week I’m eviscerated by the Sun, Mirror and Mail.
The phones of family members get hacked and crucified
I get to be the focal point of Times op-eds and late-night
BBC2 half-arsed pseudo-intellectual talk-crap programmes.
I take a deep breath and tear up the ticket and buy a
two-quid scratch card hoping to win enough for the new
i-Phone my youngest wants and designer Nikes for Emma.