I just returned from a trip to Colorado and Nevada. The National Parks were closed so we spent more time in Las Vegas than we had planned. We saw some nice shows (David Copperfield, Shania Twain and La Reve), but the hotels’ efforts to constantly put you in front of slot machines makes the desert a viable alternative after a couple of days. The jackpot noises that announce every return of two quarters from a machine, seem designed to drive one into an hypnotic coma, that starts at breakfast. You are required at many of these fine establishments to walk about a mile through their version of a neon jungle, and then you are seated right next to the machines. For many, it truly becomes a war in which it is easy to slip into noisy surrender.
This is a new poem that is part of the larger “Breakfast Chronicles”.
Glenn K. Currie
Breakfast at Marilyn’s Café (Las Vegas)
Pompeii, Buccaneer, Outback Jack and Stinkin’ Rich,
Form a maze in the search for a neon-lit breakfast.
Early morning travelers with bags on wheels,
Blend with the scarred veterans of the night.
Marilyn’s is a temporary refuge from the black holes
That power the real “city that never sleeps”.
An old woman in red pajamas wanders slowly by,
Finally coming to rest at a penny “wheel of fortune”
Where she plays fifty games with one push of the button.
Marilyn’s prices are reasonable and the food is good.
Money is saved and energy renewed.
Aliens and cartoon characters await beyond the railing,
Where smoke drifts across the battlefield,
And survivors win and lose the wrong things.
Copyright by Glenn K. Currie, 2013
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