Scotch and Bingo

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.