Bad Gamble

All bets are off
when the slot machine
of astronomy
scatters the richness
of the Milky Way
like stupid starry-eyed coins
across four lane traffic
on a Wall Street afternoon

All bets are off
if every kiss that has
ever been kissed
is counted and collected
canned in Mason jars,
sucked of all their passions
settled with an endless shelf life
of plastic and neon commodity

All bets are off
when God is shrunken
down to matinee prices
and the fire engine red Devil
insists on serving extra butter
added to the nuclear family sized
bucket-o-popcorn.