We found solace
for our aching,
cracked souls
and burnt skin
in the dim casino.
Lights flicker
fans whirred
coins clanged
our bellies
and pockets:
compadres in emptiness.
A nickel beamed
from the floor.
A beacon attracting
our starving frames.
We studied it,
an unfamiliar object.
Ran our fingers across
its ridges,
and when we asked each other
what to do with our
fortuitous find
a row of slot machines
stood with their hands raised
ready to answer.
The nickel plinked home.
The arm was pulled.
Bar.
Bar.
Bar.
Three quarters clanged
in the pan.
That night
we slept
Motionless.
The steely taste
of steak
still on our lips.
3 comments:
Another story from my Grandpa. I feel like it needs more polish. This is my second shot at this story, it could be shorter and less wordy I think.
This poem has some lines that made me laugh out loud. The slot machines raising their hands is great. The nickel becoming three quarters and affording a steak and a room is hilarious but probably true depending how long ago it was (yet so fitting of Vegas now). In the series of poems you have run here, I can see you are really fond of your grandfather and you treat the subject well.
I actually omitted the room as that was my addition to the story.
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