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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 04, 2011

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Submitted: December 04, 2011





Nowhere but here, could Reno survive,

 America’s littlest big city, forever alive.

Grown on the meadows, watered by the Truckee

Sliver her food, she now stalks the unlucky.


At sunrise gamblers scuttle, round the table they huddle

The bets form a puddle, only certainty a smoke cuddle.

Outside, the sun smites her, builds beams to the Sierras

Inside none the wiser, please smoke in designated areas.


Eyes transfixed on the digital screens,

Meanwhile fingers find the rhythm, of her particular machines.

From above they’re all losers regardless of outcome,

The winners raise their heads, desert stars are a kingdom.


Blinking bulbs grow on her body, to hide the reality

The motels don’t bother, it’s cheap, accept the tragedy.

Then night brings the screams, shouts, outside ambulances,

I wonder what this time? Looks like no more lap-dances.


After life’s luck has run dry, and her pawn shops lost pity

To downtown they’re headed, a citizen of Tent city.

A patchwork of humanity, torn, shaken and desperate

The chance of short relief, captures most of their spirit.

© Copyright 2018 DH Thompson. All rights reserved.

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