Funny thing, some may say
you sit , watching, intent on
figuring the stories
of all faces around you, wondering
what brought them here?
Faded, skin of leather worn
years of harsh living without
benefit of shelter from the
horrors, visible to those
who take the time to notice
Images of hell, seen in the eyes
of Marge. She plays thirty cards
every week, one for each year
served as a widow to the Marine Corps
Ole Marv, a regular player
suffers the hell of nights.
Listen closely and you can
hear the screams muffled
by a pillow.
Chairs dragging on worn tiles
fidgeting bodies move about
aimless as teen with his
assault weapon placed without
respect, upon his shaking hands
Callers yelling, often repeating
the numeric ball as those
who come to escape , waiting for their
number to come up.
Earl sits at the corner, best
stool in the post. Motioning
to the keep, two fingers, maybe four
enjoying the heat , the burn
as the scotch glides over his mind.
