Nothing left
in arcades with planetary
carpeting. I sit with
palms sprouting quarters
to feed slots
and make cheap decisions
based on bad neon
and skee ball.
My father was a champ
at skee ball.
I was not so lucky,
feeding little coins
into their mouths
shouting for food,
a little water.
No Tantalus here,
no drought ever
settled here,
heaps of paper
currency
perforated and called
tickets.
They litter the floors
all over this cheap town,
and each has the same
deep corners
and saturn-ringed carpet.
Little neon bulbs,
spiraling arrays
of lights
and quick sounds.
Planted with my quarters
I am making my fortune
in cardstock currency
to build my estate
with pink and green walls.
We have all labeled
the grandiose
"arcades".
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