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
