No Tree Street Names

He built motels across America loving the land so much he could sleep anywhere on her in her cheaply, predictably. Anywhere was home to him. Home was not special but same. Same bars of soap, same color wrappers. Same towels. Same smells almost. Same views. Home across the human spirit of imaginary states. Just outside streets with tree names. And out of this I arrived from love created for each single completed square space spilling forward, motel to motel, born by American Motel Woman, timeless builder, faceless with no Kodachrome to pin down my origin or capture his passion. Pick-up truck front seat cradles, beer for sedative, K-Mart toys, all-night pharmacies. His gift- I belong anywhere nowhere, owe nothing, know anyone no one, am rooted in spackle drywall and cheap two-by-fours and need only decide which illusions to put up and which to take down.