Las Vegas is a city with no poetry. When people suggest going there, I groan inside, usually followed by a lengthy protest. “Eh…I don’t know…,” I hem and haw, not wanting to hurt the person’s feelings but still wanting to make my dislike abundantly clear. When people ask me what I think of it, the first word that comes to mind is “fake.” The second is “flyers for hookers” (I know, more than one word). The third is “bad decisions,” “liquor,” and “staying up past my bedtime,” all in one fell swoop. The fourth is “I hate the desert.” Then there are the casinos brimming with smoke, gambling and drinking.…