the motel fire

the old motel
near where the interstate
connects to
roads heading south,
roads heading
north, and east,
an easy jump to
the airport,
is on fire.
it's late,
and the patrons hardly
have time to grab
their clothes
to run outside in the cold
to watch it burn.
most are hourly patrons
wearing
leather, or stiletto heels,
some with whips
still in their hands.
the men
in black socks,
hold their briefcases,
bare skin
pinked by
the frosty air.
there is sadness all
around,
as unfinished business
stays unfinished,
and the cars drive slowly
away, back
to wherever they live,
in whatever town.