When I was five, we took a train,

grandma, my aunt and me,

from Pittsburgh to Atlantic City,

“Showplace of the Nation,”

      It’s chronic now— the harkening

with streets and real estate made famous

by a game American families played.

I met the great big ocean with my little pail

and shovel and got badly sunburned.

      to a sense of loss, something fading

Soon after, the waves of visitors broke

along with the city’s fortunes. The beach,

saltwater taffy and the Miss America swimsuit

competition no longer lured vacationers.

      to a golden afterglow

To shore up the city’s fortunes

city fathers looked West to the desert,

where Las Vegas had a monopoly

on the country’s gambling itch,

      that chides my failure to grasp

and they saw green, turned green

and as a last resort chose to roll

the dice, green light gaming,

play the odds.

      the moment, leaving the day

I don’t recall the train ride home,

only my tender, peeling back.

unfinished, as I found it.

Michael Waterson retired as a journalist after stints as a firefighter, taxi driver, wine educator and other employment. He holds an MFA degree from Mills College. His work has appeared in numerous online and print journals. He is Poet Laureate Emeritus of the Napa Valley. For more information: michaelwatersonpoetry.com.