Bettor in the Giant’s Den
The heart of the stone sweats
In the foothills of some place or another
(I forgot where now in Nevada).
The wet stone, moldy-in-sweat,
Moss drenched, marinated in
Fungus-warmth, red-splotched.
The casino is a lichen (or a mold)
In dragon colors and scaly,
Smelling of synthetic pine.
Somewhere in neon exuberance,
A casino ca-chinging or so,
Cradling addiction in the harmony
Of cigarettes and vapes, all tabac
And forth, back and forth,
Coral ashtrays, and a deck of dealts.
Tobacco and the backs of cards,
The intricate carpets like soil:
Straight spades almost flushed through
And digging into the foundations.
The casino sweats like a
Filthy giant lying down naked,
Slathered in Axe Body Spray
Lazing across the rocks.
Daniel Thompson
Daniel Thompson was born in Tübingen in the Black Forest of southern Germany and moved to New Orleans at six years old. He lives and writes poetry there to this day. His latest work can be read in The Banyan Review, Sojourners Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and will be upcoming in The Chiron Review, New Square, and The Delta Review.
