It only exists when the sun goes down
and the signs flicker to life—
neon lips, dice rolling, Girls Girls Girls
gyrate in pulsing pink. The gutters gleam,
slick with rain or something worse.
The footpaths hum with heels and hunger.

No one’s from here.
Everyone’s just passing through—
folded cash, fake names and bad habits.
Cabbies don’t question—they know where to stop,
won’t leave the meter running.

Inside dens, carpets swallow sound
and roulette clicks like a loaded revolver.
A man in sharkskin watches the door,
smoke halos every bulb.
The girls all wear smiles
thin as skin, and perfume
thick as regret.

Everything’s for sale in Sin Town—
a fuck, a fix, a reason not to go home
in the morning. The alley chapel
is open all night. No one goes in.
The priest plays cards out back
in boxers and a cross.

The motel’s got half-hourly rates,
and sheets that hold the shape of lives
wasted on piss-stained dreams.
A man cries through the wall.
No one knocks.
No one checks out.

This town doesn’t pretend
or offer salvation.
It lets you escape
until you can’t even remember
your name.

Ryan Stone

From my upcoming collection – No Map for This