At the Temple of Last Chance


Sun glitters as slick
as new nail polish
on the shot glass prizes,
the wet upper lip
of the man who hands
her another five ping-pong
balls for fifty cents.

She barely misses
the fishbowl in the middle
of all the fishbowls,
the red and blue-finned
fish sideways and half-boiled,
the bowls bulging
like tired eyes.

He doesn't watch
her lose, tips his chin
toward the pinkly glowing
Ferris wheel, squinting
as if the light were some
kind of gimmick
he has yet to figure out.