Watching an unnamed show with the boys
I imagine what it’d be like to win the lotto
and it’s the highest it’s ever been, enough
for my parents to retire and my closest few
friends to also retire and we would spend
our time like we’re still in college, burgers
on the George Foreman grill, grease trap
filling then overflowing, Svedka sneaked
into arcades in our Mountain Dew cans.
I want my gentlemen taken care of, kids
nonexistent, my money on the table and
it’s black on first spin. All artists dream
of the ultimate recognition, and I’m no
different. I don’t believe in All for one—
just ones for all my fantasies on stage
and no G-string stitched with emotional
pain, only fair-trade cocaine on thrifted
gold frame mirror trays and Benjamins
rolled for nasal intake. I remember how
college tested me in the ways of loneliness:
Leaving parties early to sit on the carpet
of my bedroom, bent over the table from
my childhood home, the one with the tan
underside my sister and I scribbled over
in crayon, the one of my earliest memory
ever, that first breath into consciousness
lying in the living room and staring at the ceiling
thinking, this is the feeling. This is life.
February 13, 2026 Poetry
I Don’t Put Entourage in the Title so More People Will Read My Poem
Matthew Zhao
