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{at the temple of last chance} christine hamm Sun glitters as slick as new nail polish on the shot glass prizes, the wet upper lip of the man who hands her another five ping-pong balls for fifty cents. She barely misses the fishbowl in the middle of all the fishbowls, the red and blue-finned fish sideways and half-boiled, the bowls bulging like tired eyes. He doesn't watch her lose, tips his chin toward the pinkly glowing Ferris wheel, squinting as if the light were some kind of gimmick he has yet to figure out. |
