Cataracts and Werewolves

From lift off and burning thoughts Through the clouds the plane turned down the cabby weaved and rolled from the outskirts to hotels downtown The destination—its streets, its corners, its patrons, its vices, its affairs—seasoned the food and I wrestled to keep my dinner down The neons flashed: bleeping, burning tubes that great swarm danced, circling their doom bypassing street performers and beholder traps strolling up the side walks in strides, buzzing around the electrocutioner, watching the lights on and off and on and off and on and off I tossed and I turned, I looked— double take: one beer down, two beers down the next poured, and again Cherries and golden sevens stream around Twenty five dollars down The horse hooves pound round Cigars burning down Round the turn they come Across the finish line Twenty five dollars down Was it whiskey poured and downed while fruitless politics hammered away as the men lounged, boasting unchallenged complaints? Maybe it the driver pushing golf balls out amid the burdensome cost of appetizers scarfed down while cursing flowed as the golf balls came down?     Who are you? I asked, watching the full moon undress by the clouds. Hungry, I searched for figs, but there were none. Cursed. There is no fruit hanging from this tree.