there’s this sinister part of me

a part which

takes a sick

kind of joy

in watching these people scurry

like mad children

across the floor

–

they come here

to live a fantasy and

they believe that

fantasy

–

they feed the house their every cent

cashing checks and

taking out advances

with the dream

the hope

of hitting the

jackpot

–

there’s a system

a cycle

running over

themselves

retracing the same steps

night after night

–

it doesn’t matter though

even the ones

who defy the odds

find a way to lose

betting and betting

til the pot dwindles

leaving them empty

–

you see the same faces

every evening

reeking of cheap cigars

stale beer

and desperation

–

scrounging for

loose

quarters nickles

dimes and

pennies

to buy a ticket

–

this is the business of

enablement

of distancing the guest from

reality

expensive escapism

stretching them thin

wringing them of every last drop

of blood

–

this is the business of

entitlement

where the peasant is

king

where the eunuch is

virile

–

whether it be minutes

or hours

most return

teary eyed

exasperated

wondering how they will

make it to next

payday

–

at least they got a

nice panini press and

ten percent off at

the buffet