a deluge.
i can hardly see the road.
it's late.
i'm too tired to keep
going, and there's
so far to go.
i pull into a roadside
motel. the word
vacancy
is an orange blur against
my windshield.
it's a run down place.
one floor.
a gravel lot.
a man with one eye
hands me a key.
i give him twenty
dollars.
he asks is it for the night
or just a few
hours.
what's left of the night
i tell him.
i find the room, number
ten, along
the stretch
outside the office.
a bed, a sink.
a machine that vibrates
the bed,
a slot to put quarters
in.
i stay dressed and lie
down.
i listen through the thin
walls.
there's something less
than love
going on.
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