At the base of the space needle, shivering slightly,
after coming down, I remain underwhelmed.
Her one recommendation, “absolutely essential”
and echoed by the dharma bums spread across the city.
It had been too cold up there, at the top of the world,
the view not quite that of the Empire State building.
Seattle, in it’s sleeping beauty, was still not New York,
a west coast urban sprawl too cool to bother competing,
drowning itself slowly in clouds of weed weariness,
Pike Place Market deafening to the rest of the city.
I bought a scratchcard with a burrito at a seven-eleven,
an hour before the Chuck Ragan gig started at seven.
I slid it into my wallet and immediately forgot it,
the stub of tickets bending the postcard in my pocket.
Long after the cold had disappeared, the ticket reappeared,
scuffed and scratched, creased and crumpled, untouched.
It could be a winner, but I can’t cash it in at my corner shop,
claim my dollars, which are foreign currency at the co-op.
I’ll return to the seven-eleven, and end up a millionaire one day.
Maybe sooner rather than later; I’m not winning much in the UK.