there he was
head hanging low
on a totem pole
for all to see
supposedly
their crucification, self imposed
like a bull seeing red
and feeling melancholy
he walked out of the casino
pockets empty, again
and just fresh off the farm
he now wished he stayed home
milking cows
collecting eggs
saving his money
instead of losing his scalp
to the Indians
he looked passed the exit
a door he walked into a few hours ago
with wide open trappings
where the glitz. glamor and neon
caught his eye and addiction
literally
the cling, the clang
the sound of music
Julie Andrew's voice coming to life
reach for the sky, reach for the sky
whirling around in his head
... a cut of cloth
who knows
maybe it was his grandmother's roots
grandma are you watching
yes grandson, I'm crying and praying ...
he looked over at the green mountains
the lost forests of patrons
the felted tables, banks of chips
fjords of  waitresses serving drinks
majestic, scenic and serene
and for a moment
he wished to be a boat in Norway
instead
instead
like always
he took to a splash in the abyss
******* and sadism  
his lost fork in the road
and like a billy goat
teetering on the edge
echo's  from the valleys below
don't do it , don't do it, don't do it
he peeled off all his Benjamin's
and credit
to the depts of the dungeon
beaten and wounded
where if only the next time
he rewinds his entrance
and finds his bouency and oars

Logan Robertson

5/07/2019