Out of Vegas

What happens when poems
don’t stay in Las Vegas?

They break down the motel door,
invade the privacy of your mind
with subtle persuasion
and a shooting gallery of ducks.

But you lost your keycard
and you marry the wrong man
because you’re not the woman you wanted to be,
and now you’re swimming in a dead pool
with throwaway poems
just like the one you wrote the night before.

The night turned into another blues song
complete with a look-alike Elvis,
who you thought
had left the building.
You look up and see him flying
in his white and gold cape
and remember how tired you are,
dancing as fast as you can
before another poem slips away.