Roulette

The night backdrops the traffic lights in town
where wheels spin like water swirling down
and offer chances: red, or green, or black.
The dice are ivory, teeth lost by a clown
and marked with pips: a snake-eye staring back
prepared for flight or ready to attack.
They tumble, land. The croupier rakes it in.
The players shake their heads at shortened stacks
as if they'd really thought that they might win.
The bartender sets up another gin
and tonic for the people with the chips.
Don’t moralize; I won’t say it’s a sin
but pity the poor folks who lose their grip
who stagger broke and hungry down the Strip.