High on Cateye and Ghost Sight,
I stumbled through the streets
of Salida del Sol beneath
the watchful eye of Father Elijah.

The roulette spinner cobblestones
clicked as my feet dragged
past the courtyard.

Like an effigy, the homemade martini
between my fingers burned
my gin-soaked lungs.

Sweat and vermouth settled
in the circuits of my collar
as I gasped for relief.

Hologram gamblers tossed golden
casino chips in dried fountains
as they strolled past me and through
the Sierra Madre's gates.