Ten black dots.

The dice rolls.

Three black dots.

Angry yells
Spew from an angry drunk.

Seven black dots.

A sigh,
A slow one,
But a sure one.
There is some minor muttering,
But nothing special.

Eleven black dots.

Scalding anger,
Too close to be sure
Of anything.

Eleven black dots.

Screams that don’t
Add up to
Any language
Known to
Anyone.
There is some quiet
Dispute among the
Crowd
Of sharply-dressed
Vacationing sinners and
Local drinkers.

Seven black dots.

The crowd begins to move on,
The old drunk grunts
His remaining humility
Into perfect
Oblivion.

Four black dots.

The crowd completely disperses,
Nobody is any more interested
In this game
Than any other game,
From any other player,
Not a drunk one,
Not a sober one.

Twelve black dots.

A moment of disbelief,
Quiet serenity,
With no one left to care.
A collection of chips.
As the chips cross,
more people decide to stop
At the old drunk’s table
And watch.

Three black dots.