Note From a Motel






And here I am again, alone again, somewhere rainy
off an Interstate connection, bleary-eyed and weary, 
hopscotching map lines figuring how to get back,
back to you.  I¹ve held on to the note you slipped me,
a ticket out, heavy-handed as a stone cutter¹s  
epitaph in granite: I¹ve had it, it¹s too much,
         this is where it  all stops.

And I know it¹s not the end
of the world, even in this loneliness the panic of No
Vacancy signs along the dark and rain soaked coast
I¹ve roamed.   But here, the quiet
                       could be deadly. 

Do you know what I mean?  Can you possibly
get this?  I could become some woman in a dim lit bar,
hiking up her skirt in an urgency for love. 
Could you forgive that?  Have you
    heard this before? 

But things could be worse.  I could bump around
outside up against the muggy midnight sky, weepy
for you.  By the time this gets to you, there could be
a tidal wave, cars might crash, ships wreck, a star
burn out.  And we will have had this little accident
     of time apart to sleep and dream and think.

Yet I do nothing but dread our days cut short. 
You don¹t believe me?  Here¹s the key. 
Let your senses bring you to me.  Drag your bags in
here across the floor.   The earth might move. 
                                     We could really make some noise.

 

(Originally appeared in Eclipse)









E-mail: Andrena

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