Bingo at the Casino

The hushed sound of the numbered balls,
Pocking the walls of the confined box,
Shushed by the air blowing them around,
Until they are plucked out,
Each number called out in a measured voice.
Tables laid out for the players,
Initially holding ashtrays,
Bright orange-red circles set at regular intervals.
They are filled during the game,
A player surrounded by bingo blotters,
Circling her place, defining her boundary.
They sit in harmony with the troll dolls
Of the lady next to her.
Numbers are called, tension rises,
Carrying prayers on the cigarette smoke as it climbs.
Quiet comments between players can be heard,
Mostly not defined.
This continues, with each number that is called,
The waiting becomes more intense.
A rustle in the room indicates that someone is close,
Excitement fills the room,
Suddenly, bingo is called from a different spot,
Sneaking in, flanking the paper rustling player.
A sigh is exhaled, the bingo confirmed,
Tension gone for the moment.
Papers get torn off and wadded up,
And it begins again.
The hushed sound of the numbered balls,
Pocking the walls of the confined box,
Shushed by the air blowing them around,
Until they are plucked out,
Each number called out in a measured voice.