The slot machines stand silently at close,
their screens erased, all powers locked away;
like Easter Island statues in dumb rows,
homogenous and primitive. By day,
they’re gods of easy wealth, shiny and slick;
their single arms descend as they disburse
metallic manna. No one sees the trick
when Eucharists are given in reverse.
I know the gods are false. I know the price.
We chosen few know all about the cross
we carry, as the devil rolls the dice.
Giddy with hope, enraptured by its gloss,
I keep the faith. The slots, gray-faced and stern,
have marked me down. They know I will return.