roadside motel

I hit the road
and search for a beat up motel
in the middle of nowhere.
twin
beds. fine.
no room service, fine.
no cable. no phone. so what.

i'm good with a vending
machine
outside the door.
a sink
a tub
a toilet.

no need to get undressed.
I wont even put a quarter
in the machine to get
the bed
to vibrate.

i'll just
lie there for a few
days
and let the cold hand
of night slap me around.

i'll let the sun rise
through the thread bare
curtains, the bent blinds.

i'll listen for a few
days
to the couple on the other
side of the thin
walls arguing
about
all the things life serves
up without reason.

i'll smell the stain of smoke
from decades gone, saturating
the flowered
bed spread, that love
seat against a green wall.

i'll rub my nose at
the stench of spilled beer,
bad liquor in the shag carpet.

i'll ignore the cracks
in the ceiling. the drip
of the faucet. that bug making
his way up the wall.
his whole family behind him.

i'll pretend not to notice
the vague despair of broken
hearts that lay here before me.

I'll take the Gideon's Bible
from the drawer
and turn it randomly to a page,
putting my finger
on a line
and believe that it's God's
specific message to me.

then i'll leave and get well.
as I always do.