In the desert at dawn,
a few steps beyond the glittery lights,
the gambler—taking a break to breathe real air and count his remaining cash—
the richly-scented creosote bush that provides
shade to the tarantula,
a perch to the curve-billed thrasher and
refuge to the swift-darting roadrunner,
as he wanders out a little further,
a few old weathered boards and
half a dozen real tin cans, turned entirely to rust,
made so thin and brittle they collapse with his touch.
Writer and hypnotist, A.T. Lynne believes there is no difference when the work works.