You’ll touch down early,
10am in Terminal B, the clatter and whirr
audible long before you see
above the spinning LEDs
the naked women promising thousands.
A new hand is dealt to every passenger
as they exit the jet bridge,
stapled to the boarding pass,
electric, rosy tantalize.
The Queen of Diamonds sits heavily at the gate,
straight from the chapel, smudged,
blue plastic cocktail in one manicured hand,
cheap silver band on the other.
Her King of Clubs fumbles with his third
cigarette
click clatter whirr click
Reels turning, paylines sucking more.
Just one more. Please, just one
Searching desperately through neon fruits,
sick panic, patting jeans,
turning out coats for a fix
Give it all to the beautiful girl
in line for the bathroom.
Dazed, tipsy dread drowse,
eyes strained square from the relentless
click clatter whirr click
Frantic, anguished search for the Grail,
the sacred Triple 7.
