COFFEE... JUICE... SODA... (poem)

Casinos are filled with all sorts of lively characters. Be it dealers, card sharps, hustlers or gamblers, this is an attempt to shed light on one of those lives.

COFFEE... JUICE... SODA...
Holding her tray up high,
she struts by the lounge.
Not the new one with
the gold lame’ curtains but
the one by the
nickel slots and
all the silver foxes
pumping their IRAs into
the board’s 401Ks.
As she glides into
their hazy, cigarette smoke,
all purple and green
from the endless rows
of neon and light, she
roboticly chants her
never-ending mantra,

"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."

It took a while, but finally the
millions of twinkly electrodes
became blind to her eyes;
the clinkity-clack of coins
hitting slot trays
deaf to her ears;
the pungent, acidy
stink off all that cheap
perfume and musk,
dull to her nose.
She prances through
it all, happily, with
hips swagging about;
and still filling out
her cocktail outfit
after all these years.
The men notice.

"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."

After thousands
of bourbons
and Budweisers,
she can honestly
say she's oddly
fulfilled.
Any normal, nine to
fiver would say she’s
one ace short of
a deck, but
somehow, she’s
always rolled with
the system.
Her system.

"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."

She gets comfort from people.
And sure, they get cranky
when they lose and --
they all lose. The true
greatness of all of these
nameless faces emerges
when those Triple 7s
are aligned. With Bells
ringing and siren light
taunting the losers,
she shrugs those
elegant shoulders and
says, 'Just another day
on the floor.'
Yup, after all the ass-slaps,
stiffed tips, spilled coffee,
and red-eye shifts,
her customers (if that’s
what we cancall them)
are for the most part,
good decent folk.
She knows it.

"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."

For a short bit,
she got promoted and
became a shift manager
to the rest of the gals.
Three weeks later,
she was back on the floor
strutting in her pumps.
The brass thought she
was nuts. Somewhere
in her they saw
management material.
She saw a stroke.

"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."

She knew how many
truly unhappy
cocktail waitresses
there were in casinoland.
She knew what most
people thought of them.
‘Oh, here comes the former
showgirl or the wannabe
failed blackjack dealer.’
Little did they know that
she was the single mom
who works 12 hours shifts
overnight. Maybe they knew.
Just maybe.

Yet, in her ruffled
feathers, black
fishnet and Avon makeup,
she was a smiler.
A pure smiler;
And she was going
to stay that way no
matter what.

"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."
"Coffee ... juice ... soda ..."