Leaving Tennessee
Time is vertical in motels,
it travels red-eyed in elevators.
It’s an out of sequence conversation
you have with an ice bucket.
Barefoot hours drop their hairballs into air-ducts,
spindrifts of sweat drift unfiltered.
Morning lifts ears first,
they open eyes in your mind.
Early risers thump down hallways,
trundling wheels pulled by heavy hands.
Perched on a sagging bed,
one sock in hand,
drinking sour wine from a plastic cup,
you roll underwear into a ball
packing lost hours away
into a small suitcase.
You wonder how to leave this town,
how to check out of this wrinkled room
with the same face you came with?
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