Bingo Card

What’re poems if not a bingo card,
the right words punched out or daubed with colored
markers to win a certain sensation?
Because the lines are like money, like cash
prizes, meaningless except for what we
can do with them, how we ultimately
feel as a result of their slow aging,
this violent anticipation, for
only when we feel nothing, when numbers
never come up, when we aren’t even
in the game, is there frustration. A thrill
comes from being one ball away, almost
understanding the words perfectly, that
nearness often better than successes.

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