atlantic city,
late night on a saturday;
first time on the slots.

lost my poem book,
name and address penned inside;
lost, half-baked haiku.

having not attained
quite the lofty state she has,
we are not the same.

the rapid ticking
of a coasting mountain bike
blends with the crickets.

on your side I’d be
if only the reasons why
still made sense to me.