The Casino

A glorified bingo palace,
same indignant smell.
Saps sitting silently,
counting contently,
offering obediently.

Saps sitting silently,
planted in place.
Pacing in place- preparing for self-promised pipe dreams.

Tax dodgers, collections dodgers, draft dodgers, wife dodgers, and coffin dodgers alike
flock as moths to the warm glow of the pharaoh,
as disciples they listen
to the soothing reassurances from bets high and low,
that their grass may grow greener.
Reality goes on strike.

Down the dated carpet I walk,
I see the young and old fixed on cards and screens,
sarificing precious time and superficial dollars
to legal criminals, to cheats in blue collars.
The wolves who have ditched wool for Armani cackle,
friends of the fallen feed the fiends.

This is not meant to provide fame nor fortune, this vice.
How can these people be so gullible, so docile, as well trained pets?
So I shake my head, and I buy a beer.
I hum and I haw, I light a cigarette.
I take a drink,
I take a puff,
I curl my lips in contempt at the saps,
I sneer,

“What a waste of life.”

Published by

bendcharles

A schemer and a dreamer. I'm a #Métis author located in Saskatchewan who writes short stories, poetry, book reviews, and jokes.

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