grown up

I turned eighteen in summer's longest days,

my flip-flop sandals slapping in the heat

against the road. The target was a ways

to walk; when I got there, I was beat.

The dry, recycled air was such relief

from sun and asphalt, leers from passing trucks.

I looked at options, tried to keep it brief.

The cashier eyed my sweaty twenty bucks

with a suspicious glare. I didn't need

to vote, a cigarette, or porn. My vice

of celebration was a simple deed:

a chance to win the lotto, once or twice.

That ticket won me nothing, but I still

from time to time, buy one to catch that thrill.