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.
Reblogged this on Kelly Savage.
I really love the haunting tone of this poem and the repetition gives it a good rhythm!
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One of my favorite pieces of poetry to come out of the university so far.
Before we were married and back when we were younger and broke, my husband and I used to take long road trips and stay at places like this off the highway as part of our adventures. Kelly captures the precise feeling of those off-the-route motels so perfectly I can see the yellow cigarette-burns on the sink in my head!