You walk in on a cold starless night under the pretense

of meeting a friend, but let’s face it: there is no friend

and you don’t have any bags. You’re going to room 213

where a man wearing a bluetooth earpiece, who gave you

the key, said you can find what it is you’re looking for,

but how did he know what you were looking for?

You only met him today on an Uber ride from

the Flamingo to Mandalay Bay, but even though you don’t

know this man, this city, this ring of traffic lights, carnival games,

and twenty-five cent slot machines, you have a feeling,

something your father says hasn’t matured enough to trust yet,

but what does he know, on the wrong side of fifty

and still shooting t-shirts into the grandstands at holiday parades?

This urge, this notion, this tingle that runs from your spine

to your pants has landed you in New York, Seattle,

New Orleans, Kansas City, and LA; it’s helped you make friends,

friends who show you there’s more to life than worrying

about what your father thinks or says. You put down

a fifty on a roulette wheel and split it between odd numbers

and reds, chug a free Diet Coke and whiskey, win big,

and bring your ticket to the window where the cashier is.

Now you’re ready for the elevator, the drawn out hallway walk,

and the black numbers on the door that read 2-1-3. You slide

the key card over the fob and hear a click that lets you know you’re in.

Your heart beats faster than a leather belt in a car window’s crack

but only because you can’t imagine what comes after that,

the door like a rapture, like a song, like a yawn in the morning

after a good night of sleep, and when you see what’s behind it,

your face suddenly shifts. What is sitting before you on the twin bed

in the dim light of the city, curtains open to the riot

of the Las Vegas strip, as childish as it may seem,

isn’t a want, but an ancient, screaming need.