Sequin

You went to Vegas
but didn’t see any shows,

just walked the endless carpet
and ate, drank, and dove

into the musty glows
of wonderful false places.

Almost every week you think
you might go back, watch

one more person pull a lever,
drink one more bloody mary

at an overcrowded bar
then step into a morning

street that isn’t bustling yet,
where the men and women

aren’t ready yet to ask you
if you want a picture.

It’s complicated how much
wonder this place held for you

despite the heat and waste
and your own disposition

— seas of people in nighttime
lit by artificial sun, the eye

of the impossible dome, 
street performers in circles

swaying hips outside dark atria
more flush in cigarette light

with each step outside the gold pulse
and bright vein of the strip.