Vegas On The Jefferson

Slots ring in light
and water through logjams.
The sun's a blonde
Keno runner I can't keep
from watching
but who's counting cards?

Two otters
drunk on a ripped-up trout,
fight it out
along cottonwood
downed on a riffle.

Where light hits wave,
stoneflies get rich
but pump it right back
into the river.

Nobody here will ever win
enough. The Bitch Creek
I'm using looks neon,
as if it were dreamed up
late in a woozy blue lounge.
It's a billboard flashing
              EAT
down silt and stone.
A three pound brown does.
A few bats take the moon
to the door and cash it in.

Other Poems       Home