The Marigold Motel
Time here is measured
by the lint-clogged resurrections
of air-conditioners.
All of us have had to learn
to shout past our souls.
Dulled minds are churned awake.
Fractured nights slumber on
beneath the rocky rumble
of nearby ice-machines.
The ‘Marigold’
is unmarried, divorced and abandoned,
but for those still not seeking lonely
there are midnight do-overs.
Behind the days horizon
a desert sky still thirsts
in the mouths of discarded shoes.
Firey sunsets melt
a stale residue of bedside booze.
The Marigold is mad, it was built that way,
its identical rows of doors
are designed to be portals
to yet more distant parking lots.
We internees prefer our rooms
to be dead to the daylight,
though every night
they will always revert
to storage units
for long imagined - much better times.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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