Ann Pike

Memory Gambler

My daughter asks, "When was I born?
When did I get my first tooth?"
My eyes roll like windows
of a slot machine
spinning pictures
empty as beer bottles.

She waits again hoping
I'll hit the jackpot.

I pull the handle,
plug in two more quarters,
spin memory like one obsessed,
watch years roll, turn over and over,
years of cleaned ashtrays,
Michelob cans restacked in cases,
an empty bed unmade --
behind it bent coils of tabs
her father hammered
into lattice curtains.

She wants me to reclaim each tooth
like three lucky cherries.
Through the narrow slits all
I see is him him him
his body in the recliner
an open mouth--
a rusted out machine.




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