Bingo night

No one preys
on the addicted
like the Catholic Church
on bingo night.

They come to the tables
with chicken fingers,
pork-fried rice
and a hollow madonna,
peeling fat wads
like onion skins,
kissing the chosen numbers
with markers big and wet
as Judas’ lips.

Pushers
hawk the cards
like ice cream
on a playground –
Jackpots, 99s, Hot-hots and
Early-bird Elvis –
there’s a fix for every junkie.

In the Bible,
Jesus smashed the merchants’ tables
and they were selling more
than the Virgin Mary
dangling from a stick.

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About Don Seiffert

I'm a reporter and writer in the Boston area.
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