They thought a little game might be nice

an American version of Russian Roulette,

but no bullets in a pistol, only a wire-

mesh barrel, revolving slowly, filled

with ping-pong balls, tumbling, rolling,

every 30 seconds another ball falls out,

birth dates professionally printed, falling

into numbered slots.

Like the Texas

lottery, only you win, you lose, and the only

thing you bet's your life. That's how

the game works. Only, they forgot

the props. The big-bosomed woman

in the red, white and blue bikini. She

was supposed to smile for the cameras,

read out the numbers could she count

that high. That high—1, 2, 3,. . .120

should have been okay. 120, you don't

have to go, can have a party, celebrate,

drink beer, smoke grass, tell the government

to blow it out its ass, moon them all.

 

And they forgot to have a winner there,

like NBA draft day, lined up to grin

and walk up on the stage. A real

killing for #1: all-expense-paid vacation

to the mysterious East, exotic women,

big game hunting. They could have plastered

that on the walls, found a way to make

the day appeal to everyone, perhaps even

the players.

 

  But it was a government

party: no props, no bimbos, just

a turning barrel, wire mesh, a voice

(perhaps Georgie Jessel's?) calling

numbers, one by one, winners and

losers.