She sits before the blinking bank of lights
smooth tower above her, random chance
she taps the button, circuits dance a magic beyond 
her hope of comprehension, but resonant exactly to 
her comprehension of hope.

This is us before the world.
It rears in its random glory, we tap
blindly at the play button, which becomes
an opportunity
to consider transcience - there goes 
my $20
the futility of teaspoon measures of morality 
once you are there, you might as well 
play
you might win, you as much as any other.

You may suspect there are a cabal of humans
who have designed this fix for what’s in it for them
and who laugh all the way to the bank, 
as it has been for long imperial generations
only the levers and images change.

You may become downcast because you discern
you are a fool to give them the money, the house always wins.

But look at her.

She sits there, small and glorious and having lost 
everything, like a refugee mother
like a trafficked girl 
like every dumb peasant too low to even get 
the joke of which they are the butt. 

She remains. 
She gathers her futile coin and appeals to 
Something other than the false oracle in the machine
when she says ‘Hit me again.’


No, I am not the One on Whom
she calls, that would be blasphemy. 
I stand witness.

She is the eternal loser, forever undefeated. 
I am her spirit animal.

Image courtesy LoggaWiggler on the Mighty Pixabay.com, and whoever the bird who allowed their image to be captured. Gratitude.