Three goats on the slot machine
bleat and bray at my fingertips.
I swat at the overhead screen every time
I’m knocked down to only five dollars.
Tap the olive fedora of the smallest,
smack the vermillion sombrero
of the tallest, crack the lilac cowboy hat
of the tubbiest. At the half-tequila
will of my hands, the smallest spits
out a free spin. My ardent pads press
against the screen; pinky finds mini,
pointer finds major, index finds golden
hooves. My boyfriend taps the grand
prize with his entire right palm,
until the slots land on three minis
in a row: thirty dollars! High-fives
overstretching four empty glasses.
The more I tap the screen, the more
the goats want me to win. More gold
to trickle down from the shuttering sky.
The goats bleat and bray all night,
as I wait for them to cough up enough
cash to make up my losses, fingers
rubbing roughly over electronic bellies.