Tuesday (Sunday)

In Las Vegas
days are not the same as they are everywhere else:
for tourists they all jumble together –
there are no clocks in the casino,
nowhere to be seen,
save on watches and cell phones,
which you’re not allowed to take out at the table you’re playing at,
which you’re meant to lose track at,
the dense physics of a black hole
in the ups and downs of Destiny and Fortune,
playing dice with your own universe.

For anyone in the service industry,
time is funky in another fashion,
weekends migrate,
Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays are Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays;
and here I am on a Tuesday/Sunday night,
two sheets to the wind at an open mic,
trying to numb depression with alcohol and performance poetry,
lonely in a breakup and the adulations aren’t cheering me.

The feature is as sad as me,
always has been,
his poetry is catharsis,
loosing sadness with the flick of a pen,
and the crosswalk beeps down a countdown that might as well be a ticking time bomb,
the air is alive with his acapella song.