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