What Poem Today Ten


We stopped only to snap the Klondike’s sign.
With half the neon dead, DIKE glowed bone white
from the marquees into the black outskirts
of Vegas. No cars but ours in the lot,
but Robert tried the door. It wasn’t locked.

Inside the dim, still space, most of the slots
sat off, and the game tables stank with dust.
We saw four souls flickering in the lit
end of the room: one player with ghostly
indifference and one who talked to herself,

one emotionless security guard,
and a barkeep watching reality
TV, none of whom moved to look at us
as we toured, astounded the DIKE could be
operative in fact if not in spirit.

A wheel of fortune hung on the wall. We
each spun for imaginary prizes.

Finished the poem version above on the train today. (I feel like it will take a few days to get back on a regular sleep schedule after the long, annual Vegas weekend.)

Posted "Dike Sunset Casi" on Facebook for some nice feedback and varied likes.

Delivered three poems to Ann Trinca for the Like/Share II Art and Poetry event in Oakland, "Love poem or apology," "Self-portrait via inbox: me as my attention," and "Δ"

Began reading Rattle issue 44. Planning to renew subscription.


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