The Chariot of Roland
1.
From the side of the highway
with his one good hand
to shade his eyes, Roland
swings his legs off the bike,
nudges the kickstand with his toes.
He spins the sun in the heavy spokes
hoping it will spark against the flint,
light the city aflame
behind him. Vegas rises,
buildings butting out of the valley
like steely cigarettes, shaken
from the pack and offered
to a stranger.
2.
He’s all sevens. The neon
stars and twin moons
on the marquee overhead
flicker in count with the cards.
On either side, like svelte pillars,
women in striped catsuits,
eyes dark with kohl,
push drinks, offer crowns
in plastic laurels, their voices
the vehicle, and the need.
On the table in front of him,
on a square traced in felt,
he sets the kings
and ace. Turns. Leaves.
3.
The cell phone offers a
certain telepathy, like all this
cactus linked under the
vast desert. He zips the leather
jacket. Slips the steel case
into the pocket at his hip.
Smothers the ember under
the heel of his boot. Turns
the key. The road is long
and ruthless, but precise
in where it leads. He is tall
and merciless and precise
in where he leads.