Vintage pick-ups and faded Buicks
lined the roadside, while mosquitoes
swarmed outside the City Municipal
where the bingo sign, spray-painted
in red on plywood, leaned against
brick fifty years old and cracking.
Behind a screened door retired
farmers and their wives in flower prints
bent over formica tables and sipped
coffee from styrofoam cups while they
anxiously played for the 8” color t.v.
Nerves were cut loose with the first call;
C-23 put old women on the edge
of metal folding chairs. A few
old men skillfully placed the button
over the number. Three more calls,
a row was filled, a crooked-toothed
old man raised his hand, cried along
with his falling cane, “I’ve got it!”