Without Las Vegas, America is just another motel.
Ice machine down the corridor spitting out cubes.
June bugs surfing sizzling light waves.
Over the blackjack tables, lions grip trapeze bars
in their teeth but no one looks up.
Accountants from Des Moines disappear
between the legs of sexual technicians.
Shrimp curl under orange rays like Quasimodo’s knuckles.
Every flight is filled with beauticians drawn in by the glow
of electricity seen from space.
Las Vegas is the Macchu Picchu of North America.
We are all hiding out from the Conquistadores
inside the slot machines. When the lights go out,
we will get down on our knees and eat the lawns.

David Thornbrugh is a Ring of Fire poet based in Seattle, Washington, USA. In his poetry, he strives to make sense of existence, and to lessen some of the gloom he feels as the natural world fades further and further into the past and the future looks less and less viable. He finds life without humor not worth the effort, and the idea of being a poet in America pretty funny.