the motel

after the white swing
of headlights
through the thin
curtains,
you hear them
speaking outside
on the sidewalk
unloading a car
or van, you can't
see from this vantage
point, lying in bed
with your lover.
both spent and waiting
for a moment to dress
and leave. you hear
a family of a different
dialect, somewhere from
the midwest, perhaps,
the vowels and consonants
not spoken as you
would, or her, who has
a hand upon your
arm, ready to tap
and say, i have to go.
they are tired
from their journey,
as you are,
the small words
define that. the children
bitter about what
they didn't get
and being so far
from home, from
the things they know.
the parents saying hush
beneath their breath,
that people are sleeping.
people are sleeping,
but not us, not yet.