I see three brown stains on the white ceiling

splattered in a pattern that looks like somebody had either

chucked paint up there while they were working (though nothing

else is this color) or someone was brutally murdered,

and while the second scenario is unlikely, the chance

of being killed in your Las Vegas hotel room is never zero.

Here’s a good one: what do you call six broke besties

with thirty dollars between them all crowded around

a roulette wheel? A gallery of pie-eyed muppets

with paychecks coming at the end of the week. Those same

six besties at a Korean restaurant in the MGM Grand? Zealots

for kimchi carbonara, birria ramen, garlic chicken, and yuzu shrimp.

My Grandma’s favorite bird is the flamingo. I watch them

from my window as they cower in the shade of their waterfall.

They weren’t lying about the heat. There is a pelican down there, too.

I think of Al Pacino. I think of the orca that killed

that woman in Orlando, that Conner claims to have touched through

the gates in the tank.

Everything here is faded and pink. The windows glare pink down

at the pool where a pink crowd has already started buying the forty

dollar drinks. I wish I had a drink.

Sorry. That’s my alcoholism talking, the hands of my ancestors

touching my shoulder, then my elbow, then my wallet

as I order my vodka neat.

There’s an essay about a boy who killed himself here. It’s also

an essay about how beautiful this place is. Neon cowboys

and a giant circus tent, wedding chapels, low ceilings in the casinos

with mirrors that I catch a glimpse of myself in, putting a bill

in a slot machine. I raise my glass. Here’s to you, you nervous wreck, you

slow spender, small winner, your hand still shaking while you cash this check.