Neon Signs
He kept looking out the window of the shady hotel room,
between the rusting and eroded bars, that he didn't know if they were there to keep him in or others out.
He could see the street from his perch. Taxis and buses barreling forward as if on permanent cruise control. All the busy bodies mulling about.
Returning to a bed with a moth-eaten comforter and ragged sheets,
with stains too numerous to count.
Sipping coffee that tasted more like muck,
stirring in sugar in ridiculous amounts.
The television on but nothing to see. Static and snowy figures moving around, barely intelligible, offering him no entertainment. Complaining to the management would accomplish nothing. They deemed him to be just one step above the common vagrant.
Checking again, out the broken window, awaiting the inspiration.
Still nothing, now growing impatient from the tedious investigation.
His weathered skin with goose bumps, raised high in anticipation.
Only a few moments more until his personal ruination.
The neon signs along the boulevard, pop on, as if in unison.
The night shift has begun; time to take on another one.
He'll participate in degradation until the morning sun.
His sorry excuse of a past, trying to outrun.
Afternoon wake up call stirs him from his slumber.
How many more days he has are impossible to number.
Spending any time on that would surely only encumber
his campaign of debauchery, his memories to throw asunder.
Neon signs pop on, again, their alluring messages blinking.
Willfully answering their call, despite his lifespan shrinking.
Another night invested, in smoking and heavy drinking.
Wanting to forget everything, no more conscious thinking.
BLT
*A Portrait Piece
Copyright © Bill Turnbull | Year Posted 2025
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