Casino


 
It’s on the freeway, to accommodate
Out-of-town sharps with their fabled wealth,
But it’s mostly locals weekday nights
Wandering from the parking deck to ride
The escalators down to the main floor
 
Where they scatter purposefully, with some
Heading for the back tables, but most
Lining up in front of slot machines
And punching buttons, focused on the task
Like workers pulling a production shift.
 
But it’s more like a mine than factory,
Extracting, not producing, with the twist
That the gold and silver aren’t dug up
But brought in by the patrons from outside,
Donated a few coins at a time.
 
Either way it seems more work than play
For the rank and file at the machines;
As they cycle through their standard tasks,
Most don’t smile or seem at all relaxed.
I wonder if a real mine is as sad.

David Stephenson

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  David Stephenson would be pleased to hear them.