I think the luck ran out back in two-thousand and three,
there’s nobody to blame except God, and me,
and all of the terrible people in the world,
So I set my drink at the penny slots.
The last of a rare tortoise from the Galapagos
is trapped in a ship’s hold, waiting for the butcher,
and its throat is plump with water,
sweet and warm, life-giving,
and death lets men make a living.
The lights are flashing and the slots are spinning
and I don’t know what the symbols mean,
And they stop as sudden as a tire explodes
Have I won? Have I lost?
but they’re only penny slots, and there’s
no reason, no rhythm, and it