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.