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Men enjoy the smell of Camel cigarettes at the check-in counter
just like they enjoy the sound of bones tapping on wood 
in the late AM in the hallways. Stilettos are from God. 

Then, the slow tapping at his door. The heart beats more.
The drunkenness of his eye. They enjoy. 

Spider-like, how both women with dyed
blonde hair and coarse, rubicund skin 
crawl to John on the bed. 

The strange car downstairs with lights on still waits outside. 

The women begin to kiss each other’s lips.
One with a small bump above her lip
quickly hooks her fingers at the top edge of his pants. 

One bends down in front of him. The other, with her hands, touches what is sacred.
The rickety sound of the window air conditioner shakes and rattles. 
The old stench in the carpet swells. 

Outside, the rain begins to pour sideways. It bangs dramatically on the roof.

The man working the late shift behind the front counter 
with an old, small TV on his lap is drunk again. 
A sound of something on the floor moves. He lazily opens his eyes and sees nothing and closes them. 

A light-skinned, middle-aged black man in a car parked car outside
with the windshield wipers still on waits in silence. 
His body is slumped towards the steering wheel, gun in his hand
as if he was waiting for a sign to make a move if he had to.

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