Itís on the freeway, to accommodate
Out-of-town sharps with their fabled wealth,
But itís mostly locals weekday nights
Wandering from the parking deck to ride
The escalators down to the main floor
Where they scatter purposefully, with some
Heading for the back tables, but most
Lining up in front of slot machines
And punching buttons, focused on the task
Like workers pulling a production shift.
But itís more like a mine than factory,
Extracting, not producing, with the twist
That the gold and silver arenít dug up
But brought in by the patrons from outside,
Donated a few coins at a time.
Either way it seems more work than play
For the rank and file at the machines;
As they cycle through their standard tasks,
Most donít smile or seem at all relaxed.
I wonder if a real mine is as sad.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Stephenson
would be pleased to hear them.