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A lizard in the doorway across the street seems to sleep
with one eye closed,
but when I pass
a silent tongue tastes.

Las Vegas is a subterfuge by day
all light and steel, glass mirrors
where you see a smile you have to pay for.
People following wide Goodyear trails,
wearing juke-box masks,
the rich smell of old meat turning slowly
on a one-armed bandit barbeque,
a museum ran by enablers.
Car-horns drive the streets at night
weaving through the drunks,
shell-game middens at every warren
comb the ubiquitous dirt off ubiquitous clod-hoppers.
Neon drummers ply their hooks,
while desperation licks his lips, glad to be at home,
knowing you brought something for him,
why else are you both here?
Later a song about love whispers briefly
through the closing automatic door,
like a salve,
like a memory of a better somewhere,
almost quieting the hungry rumble of the soul
before, like everything else and you, it’s gone.

The lizard seems to sleep,
its tongue tracing the empty form
left behind,
unconcerned, it knows
something will come along, and soon,
lured in off the highway by a new mirage.