Results Poem by Ernest Hilbert

We are the ones who box the picks,
Superstitiously select each day
A birth hour or star sign, or random array.
We gladly invite this tax

On the unwise, on the desperate,
Because we feel as if we're trapped
By snares laid that long ago snapped
Shut on us. We're held with debt

That ankles us. We try to thrive,
Caught in jobs we hate all week,
Return to costly houses at night, contrive
By all means to twist free. So we seek

A way out. It's easier to lose
Alongside millions, a promise small
As a speck, almost impossible
To believe. On top of what we choose,

What we spend and try to save,
It's always there. It's what we have.