Bets Laid for the Mocking Crowd

The devastating drink upon which
 man lays his bet; the dusk-time red in his glass -
the glittering tonic
 soothed in gin -
the warming sips through the heart and lungs when
 the wheel of his roulette lays him
bare for the evening, etherized by dawn
by whiskey -
the Devil's breath its aroma;
its taste the juice of poison berries.
He returns to the drab, damp brick
in amber lights,
lays his ante, shakes dice.

 A goblet of beer then for now. It's early yet.
The cards have only just been shuffled.
A shot to the evening star,
the sun's worried tear, afraid to leave man alone at night,
 knowing better than he his folly. A shot, then,
to the sun's tear, slowly dripping behind horizon;
   and the antagonizing stars arriving
   to watch and rant, laugh and jeer, wink sinister - the demons -
 saying, "We are here still. Why should you slow your drink?"
and, Oh! how man falls.
At dawn, the man
 bowing bankrupt and tragic;
the last stars scornfully and laughing go away.
 The sun nervously opens her eye upon this man, her face
wet with the dew of tears
she sweated through her nightmare sleep.
 She prays over the fool while he sleeps
under her watchful, mourning gaze. Then,

Dusk, the ante, cards shuffled.
 The roulette wheel lands on bleak.
A bet, a tear,
and a billion winking sneers.