Lottery ticket man A leathered face, fragile, sleepy eyes, and broken teeth. Sun spots dot his wispy haired head. Unshaven and unkempt, clothes dirtied, blind and cold, voice strained from having to shout, back turned, to the wind. He rubs his hands for warmth, and listens for the next passer by. Is this the face of good luck? Is this the face, of prosperity? Is this the face, of the person who will grant me my riches? This is the face of the lottery ticket man, and he cannot win. He knows of no good fortune, he has been beaten and broken and how can he hawk chance, when fate has obviously foiled him? “Give up!†I shout, “you have lost!†But he looks at me, and still, he smiles.
In Madrid the state lottery is run by Spanish citizens with disabilities, usually blindness. Vendors stand on the street with lunchboards or in designated boothes and sell tickets. They inspired this poem.
