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.