the tickets

the line
at the machine is long.
white haired men,
blue haired women with
cash in hand.
one by one they stick
their bills
into the slots, push
the red buttons
with a prayer,
and fingers crossed,
four across, three across.
lucky shamrocks.
bells and whistles.
outside they stand,
huddled alone
in the wind
and scratch their stubs.
the grey chips
float away in the air.
forty dollars a day,
why not, they think.
one says loudly, bingo,
as the others
turn to walk away.