Jeanne Marie Beaumont

That the numbers must be good from the get-go
and then
get better.

At this counter you can buy mints, M&Ms, slick magazines, and
a chance for the end of the rainbow. It doesn't help to be
a sourpuss (I should know).

One automaton please in good operating condition, bringing food to
her mouth, or pulling a card from his sleeve.

Quick write that number down and your birthday backwards and
your great aunt's address. Omit zeroes.

One complimentary cloning of the cherished cat.

After you've committed those numbers to your gullible memory,
chew them up and spit them into the river.

It often works to one's advantage to be superstitious. As in
take the ticket with your left hand, pay with the right. Always. Never.

You never know you never know you never know

You could be rolling in pay dirt hitting the deck of the ship that came in
stacked with dough.

You need a dream. A trip to the moon on gossamer wings. Or a secret
room, or just a larger closet, a closet chockfull of fabulous things.
A litter of kittens falls into your lap—hello! (If I lost you there, just think
of too much of anything to hold in your arms.)

One Victorian choker braided with Brontë hair.

Dream on, little swindler, little sucker, little simpleton, sonneteer.

Here, mister, take this dollar I have origamied into a heart.