Under a neon Moon

We stood on that ancient 1950’s street,

 Surveying our fiefdom

And waving in acknowledgment

Of our druken subjects.

Joyful their faces! Flushed red with cheap alcohol

 -Beer for the men, Margaritas for the women,

In imitation of the King and Queen-

 And flashing harlequin with reflected motley.

In honour of our visitation

The Via Sacra Antiqua was bathed in brilliant light

And giant glow-bright figures

Placed for our particular enjoyment.

So dazzle-blind the bulbs, so sweet the blessed beer,

That, raising head to pulsating sky,

I thought myself fallen into a Kaleidoscope.

The Chief Minister of Fremont Street

Was keen to stand behind the bar

And slake our bitter desert thirst.

As hands of poker were well won I claimed my share

And kissed her full upon her lips. A happy night.

 But even the most fearsome brightness

Could not reveal that secret wound

Received for life-time want of armour

And a skill to read the stars that seems so plain to others.

How many knew that my unthinking and unasking gesture,

So glorious to me in my parched imaginings,

Became a cause for her unhappiness? I did not even think to ask.

Yet on this night we smiled and took our winnings

 Into the sweetness of the dark.

For now who can say if such a night

Will ever come again for us?