The pump clicked once, soft applause,
as I walked inside, dreaming of luck.
The line was long, I chose numbers,
quick picks for futures I couldn’t picture.
The screen outside was screaming $212,
as if I had fueled an entire sky.
My Honda, loyal, mild-mannered, doesn’t ask
for much, just a small sip, a breath.
But someone had borrowed my trust,
their truck surely a beast, insatiable.
I pictured someone else’s hands gripping,
the handle once meant for my tank.
Back in my car, my chest felt hollow,
like the empty space where those dollars lived.
“Winning ticket,” I whispered, pretending luck
was heavier than the weight of theft.
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