Motel Time
Time is vertical here,
it travels red-eyed in elevators,
it is an out of sequence conversation
you have with an ice bucket
it drops hair and lint into air-ducts,
then spins them into dreams.
In the morning,
perched on a sagging bed,
one sock in hand,
drinking sour wine from a plastic cup,
you close a suitcase
that bulges from two-days' worth
of motel-time.
You wonder how to leave
this wrinkled room,
with the same face you arrived with,
shrug,
move on out of one box
onto another.
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