Praying In Las Vegas

It’s the noise. The lights. The constant din
of slot machines and music,
madness that after times, seems normal.

Women parade in impossible dresses
that make it difficult to tell prostitutes from wives,
and old men pull the arms of machines,

noticing nothing but the bourbon at their side.
The poker tables are full, even now
at five AM, Latinos in their cowboy hats

fleece the pale old gentleman
in his perfectly fitted pinstripe suit.
Young girls dance in the aisles.

And you? You are having breakfast,
your east coast clock out of whack
and your mind and heart so far from this place

that you might be elsewhere.
You are impossibly still in this place
where nothing is still. Nothing is quiet.

You are praying, not words
because there are no words
that can break through the distraction

all around you, no, not words,
but a yearning, a call for peace
where there is not.

Your waitress comes to your table.
She hesitated, unsure what to do
with your quiet.

“Are you praying?’ she asks. And you nod.
She leaves the check and walks away,
her head shaking

at the madness of prayer
in a place
like this.

About this poem

I am in Las Vegas the first half of this week, at a broadcaster’s convention. This is the 32nd year I have gone and this year, more than most, I am struck by the noise and distraction that is everywhere. How does one think here? How does one ground yourself? It takes mindfulness, for sure, and more than normal.

Tom