VEGASTRICTION 

In this dustbowl 

where America comes to sit 

and flush away its money, 

a man stands on The Strip, 

face an erosion of time and  

sun quietly unmasking the layers 

off his skin. Burns a cigarette  

out on his tongue, smirks  

noticing you reading his cardboard slogan, 

I may be homeless, but I don’t mind 

telling you I just need a drink. 

You feel saddened and  

strangely claustrophobic,  

the Nevada mugginess whispering in 

your lungs, eyes rolling back into their lids 

as your arm stretches out like a flamingo’s neck,  

drop a crumpled dollar into his  

plastic peanut butter jar, 

his prickly smile stinging 

as you waddle towards  

the next casino in thick blind heat – 

this city so enamoured with 

artificial light.