A day of this sort drags. It has no use.
I'm in Las Vegas by myself, and not
To gamble or to rave. I came to lay
Out in the sun, to get away from winter's
Grasp, but it is cool and wet. I cannot
Stomach garish carpets, noise and tourists
Blowing money, fancy watches, ersatz joy,
But I am tired, too, of lurking here, above
A battered street, along which broken locals
Walk in search of jobs or packaged beer.
I have to find something to do to kill the
Hours until morning, when I'll pack my
Bag and leave, and fly back home to
Winter's grasp, and other days that drag.
Lawrence Beck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-wish-you-were-here-would-be-cruel/
