What Happens in Vegas

What Happens in Vegas

by Donna Vorreyer

Inside rooms of singing, men dangle
in despondence: winter wages lost,
still sidling in lager; something whispers
loser. Wretched, they begin to tire.

This much maelstrom ends in
glimpses from beneath machines.
One waif leans over, resonant in satin,
her plea a shin: bare, shining, blue.

Such vehement anatomy, neither
lusty nor dirty, just a shell to steal.
Vessels, all – just gaze – they are
foregone, all interrupted end marks.

She grinds in earnest, vile light
dappling the air. A genius in bitters
and beers, a dented trinket, she has
no plan but Kegels in the winter.
This work, like kindling, feeds itself.

-refers from the line “something more or less, human” in Rose Hunter’s poem Walking into the Wynn, Las Vegas, and You are Stitched Into

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