GAMBLERS ANONYMOUS

This is not about a man
standing in front
of a certain slot machine
for hours, staring.
This is not about
the expressions of people
seated or standing about.
This is not about
the balance of a woman,
dipping at the knees
to serve a drink.
This is about
a dark chocolate.
This is not about music
made by spinning reels
or tinkling bells or
a message that could
be encoded in the flashing
of the lights.
This not about
the all night party streamers
of a waitresses' hair or
how much grace inflates
the life rafts of her lips
or what tempts
in the tone
of her skin.
No, this is simply
about a dark chocolate.
About what
makes it liquid
in the mouth.
About what
taunts the eye
on the frantic cab ride
from the airport of possibility
to the center of the city of sighs.
This not about a woman
walking past and checking
her side view mirror
to see if he's watching.
This isn't even about
which candy he
may or may not desire
as he swipes his card
in the register of longing.
This is not
about a bar.
This is about
a dark chocolate.
About how it
melts and shimmers.
This isn't about
how the arrows of some eyes
narrow if he doesn't speak or
the mariachi band of
laughter from a certain
set of lips when he does.
This is not about a man
standing in front of a bank
of thieving machines
dreaming of symbols
lining up on a reel,
not about
a progressive jackpot.
This is about
a dark chocolate.
This is not
about smiling through
reclining eyelids
or softly licking
the lips
afterwards.
This is about
dark chocolate
wagered on
the tip of a tongue,
about being
lost in a bet.