By the time we checked into our suite at the Four Seasons, high above the Strip,
we slept on the plane from, Chicago,
navigated our way to a taxi past bright lights and one-armed bandits,
posed with Elvis in the lobby, wearing overalls white.
Inside,
I have my husband open the suitcases
and pass me our things.
Minutes later,
my bras in drawers,
our clothes are hung.
Our toiletries placed.
My space arranged.
He knows not to ask
before I’m done.