Colonial Motor Court Motel | Kelly Savage

No one sticks around
the Colonial Motor Court—
you’re not supposed to.
With smoky sheets like sandpaper,
and drawers sticking shut,
you’re not supposed to.
The twisted cherry stem out front
lights up vacancy.

It’s an empty place,
a passing-through place.
a come-smelling-like-the-road place and
a leave-smelling-like-sex place.
It’s not a place for forever people.

We’re uncomfortable under stiff comforters,
the smoke detector beeping all night.
The walls are telling us secrets
we weren’t supposed to hear.

But if the mirrors are cracked,
if the bathroom floor is flooded,
if there’s no Bible in the bedside table,
I don’t notice.

Your lips trace temporary rose petals
on my neck, and I check to see
how long they take to fade.
Maybe in the morning, we’ll fade too.
or we’ll go from this place,
forever people.