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Poetry

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American Summer

Poems written while traveling.

The Morning Light Dispelled by Neon 


The cocktail waitress kept bringing me cocktails
and while I wasn't losing, I wasn't winning

either, which—likely—was not key to my ambitions.
The dealer was a stone-faced old hag named Marion

who claimed to prefer the night shift and was
formerly a lab assistant to a Reno dentist named Rocky.

She complained bitterly of his nocturnal habits
but I loved the way she thanked me for each small tip

placed appropriately on the felt—it was almost
like having fun.  Then, the three sisters sat down

and things went unconscionably bad so fast, so
completely, I found myself too weakened to leave.




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