The Motel Room

Resting on a two lane highway, not a destination, but a way station for weary travelers

Some adventurers, some dreamers, most just seeking comfort from the night

They’ve come to rest, as tomorrows test, will be grueling pure delight

There this room, greets its guests who reek of cigarettes and hamburgers.

 

The room knows well what’s in store, as it’s seen this all before, again and again forever bored

Never invited on the ride, like a mongrel on a chain, never fed and seldom clean

People come and make a mess, they spill their fruitjuice on the bed, and the toiletries they hoard

Never waving fond goodbyes, never smiling as they turn their backs and hurry from the scene.

 

In the afternoon the women come, speaking in tongues unrecognized, their soft yet hurried touch is not enough to sooth the ghosts inside

They forever pace from side to side, as if waiting to depart on some destination

Peering out the window from inside, no sleep for them tonight, they illuminate a lamp in their frustration

They gaze through the glass, trying just to pass, but in this their calvary they must abide

Author's Note

One of my five original poems