around two-thirty in the afternoon they begin to

gather outside the entrance, a gaggle of gamblers

with razor-eyed intent, hungrier than refugees,

the casino junkies of Lisbon back for their fix.

living nearby, I often see them, many with gaunt, 

haunted faces, choking cigarettes into red-hot pokers, 

rehearsing their performance in the theatre of tables, 

mentally honing strategies to win big. 

the doors swing open promptly at three, sparking

a rush like Selfridges on Boxing Day, past bulky, 

suited, security men and dead pan, armed police 

officers, without so much as a glance at the thousand 

or more slot machines, for this gang of hardcore 

casino-istas have bigger prey in mind.

                                --- ~ ---

on late night strolls, I have seen some sad souls

heading home looking creased and crumpled, 

the gait of the defeated; laundered, rinsed, spun, 

and hung out to dry after a roulette roll too far, 

a twist too many, or an ill-judged poker ploy, leaving 

them hollow, and hungrier than when they arrived. 

I have a name for that look: casino face.