The Great Fortune Creator
Pushes and prods, probes and pricks
The neurons of your brain
To fire, just how he likes it.

A long-lost friend will return to mind.
And so she does.
Her dog, she was a poodle named Whitney,
You remember.
The Creator giggles into his hand, watching as
You dial her number:
“How is Whitney? Fine?”

He plucks your head between his fingers,
Drags you along and
With a snigger
You are warm, moldable
Clay within his rough hands.

Riches are only what you make of them.
Lucky numbers: 08 24 17 18 56 05
When you return from the corner store,
Pocket empty, yet smiling to the dark
He smirks and whispers to the numbers,
Nice work.

His office is in New York City, atop
A tall skyscraper without a window.
In the closet, by his computer
Are many keys, in flight.
He chooses one more,
Laughing inside while he opens the door
And whispers,
Let’s get Chinese tonight!