On Sundays we go to the casino
The Palace, in God’s country
Just off exit fifty-two in Knoxville, Alabama
It’s palatial presence abrupt
Out of place amongst cinder block
Buildings, weathered fence posts, pastures
My husband disperses twenties
The quest for unearned funds begins
Slots as bright as the risen sun
Sensory, sensory, sensory
Lights flashing, blinking, pulsing
Music, buzzers, sirens
Stimulating senses
Overriding reason
Funds relinquished
Daring chance to produce
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Author:
Katie B. (
Offline) - Published: May 20th, 2026 01:53
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 40
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments5
Gambling in one form or another part of life itself. Why states make it illegal while offering state lotteries and endorsing insurance (the big time gamble where one bets against oneself) A fun read Katie
Quite an adventure that was one could gather in the reading🙏🏻🕊️
Katie, what a sharp and quietly haunting poem this is. The starkness of the setting against the compulsive sensory overload works incredibly well...especially “Slots as bright as the risen sun.” There’s almost a liturgical rhythm to the machines and lights, yet underneath it all sits this aching pursuit of something just out of reach. Excellent write, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Sounds like a fun trip each Sunday.A delightful piece
Gambling is always there in life and most times we win the good times in life Katie, I certainly do.
Andy
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