It's Simple, Las Vegas
Original poem by Kyhlie

Familiar everything. Routine everything. 
The first steps of the sun insist on hitting the Wynn,
blinding any on lookers with a sharp, bronze glare.

The same mildew scent in the air, clinging to my skin.
It makes my nostrils flare. 
My eyes water.
I welcome the moisture from them with open arms.
Temporarily obscuring drunks and hookers 
that slither back into their alley ways on Fremont Street
as my bus proceeds past them. 
Typical.
Distant ringing of slot machines 
from people who could care less about their lives, 
alcohol heavy on their breath. 
"Bring me another," they say
to the almost middle aged cocktail waitress 
who throws on that false smile at the beginning of every shift. 
Untraceable cancer growing in her lungs from inhaling 
smoke from her customers every god-blessed day, year after year.
And it's only 6am, Monday.