the rhythm
of a casual game –
predictable clicks
of poker chips, cards
hiss-slapping, murmured
ritual phrases (check, damn,
read em and weep) —

water to the thirsty
in the wild desert of living
paycheck to paycheck,

interrupted of course
by coin against scratch ticket
like the fluffing of a pillow
in advance of lying down to dream.

and the conversation
that means nothing
above it all — luck talk,
small talk of weather
sport and celebrity foibles —

just the scirrocco
hot and dry,
destructive and as predictable
as the children who break into the moment,
ruining then lightening the mood —

give a wish of your own
to these small takers
of small comfort
in the face of regret,
fear, and resignation
to the lot of the mass minded.

it’s how the other
ninety percent live,

the better gamblers
who know the house always wins
over time.