Clocks in casinos are
You won't find them except on the
Wrist of a pit boss
Who wants you mesmerized,
Lose track of time,
Spend all your money,
Visit the ATM repeatedly, and
Stumble out into the warm dawn,
Demoralized, empty pockets,
Looking for a cheap diner with a sympathetic waitress who won't judge.
Nor will you see windows,
Because they can help inform time as well.
Casinos are fantasy traps of circular desperation,
Where sight and sound are
Rapturous, inviting, seductive,
Casting spells that make you feel
Handsome, beautiful, important.
There, in the hypnotic time con,
Engulfed by clouds of sound, nicotine smoke and
Scantily clad cocktail cuties,
You will smile while handing over your money,
Making an impossible bet that proves you're alive,
Just like real life,
Ecstatic highs and wretched lows,
Lovely, joyful, horrible misery,
But worth the gamble.

© Poem Fix 2012
Image: Jamie Adams

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