Of furniture, lately abandoned in North Las Vegas

For several years in a row, I traveled to Las Vegas each April for the National Association of Broadcasters conference and exposition. I am not a gambler, and I don’t like crowds (or bright lights, if we’re being honest) so I knew I didn’t want to stay on THE STRIP. Instead, I often opted for a $70/night stay at the El Cortez Hotel, on the old strip: the far less glamorous northeastern corner of Vegas. There are no glitzy high-rise hotels here, and far fewer tourists. Here, you’ll find bodegas, unfussy cantinas, colorful street art, buskers, panhandlers, and the municipal pool (where I spent many an early evening swimming laps).

Every room in the El Cortez, including the casino-in-dire-need-of-a-refresh on the main floor, reeks of cigarette smoke and Pine Sol. The beds are uncomfortable, the towels are threadbare, and the walls are extremely thin, but after a while, the El Cortez began to feel like home.

One night, I was invited to a vendor’s glitzy pool party at the Wyndham—one of the big glossy hotels on THE STRIP, within spitting distance of the Trump International Hotel (where a soldier on leave recently self-immolated in a Tesla Cybertruck). At the Wyndham, there were well-maintained decorative fountains, floral arrangements in crystal vases, and freshly waxed floors. Patrons, who’d spent nine times what I was paying at the El Cortez, wore Burberry blazers and toted Louis Vuitton bags.

It was all very impressive—on the surface. But as I feigned interest in conversations with vendors and industry peers, a word kept turning over in my mind: veneer. A good word, veneer! A microscopic surface layer, a decorative facing; deceptive. I thought about the false turrets of the Excalibur, the ebony plastic pyramid of the Luxor, the faux gold on every surface of the Trump International; this veneer of wealth everywhere one looks on THE STRIP. Maybe that’s what I liked about El Cortez: it may have been decrepit, but at least it was authentically decrepit.

I began to think about an extended metaphor for 21st-century Las Vegas, a city that was—in its heyday—truly a destination for high rollers and celebrities, but has become something like an abandoned loveseat in an alleyway. If you squint at it, you can imagine the beauty and luxury it once held, but that was a long time ago…

photo by Andrew Ward

Of Furniture, Lately Abandoned in North Las Vegas


A loveseat leans against a chain-link fence.
It’s the color of putty, the color of blood.
Its cushions are stained with sex and shit.
It stinks of menthol smokes and stale pils.
In silence, it sinks and sags, slouches and slumps.

Once, it towered atop a Turkish rug.
The shimmering centerpiece in the Queen’s quarters.
One day it was the throne of a calf,
and the next it was the seat of veal.
Now, nobody dances the Loveseat Quadrille.

April is National Poetry Month! I aim to post a poem each weekday in celebration of the form. Some old, some new, some published, some never-before-seen.