the sign hanging
over the once white
building, now more
scabs of peeling
bubbled paint swaying
in the prestorm breeze,
proudly festooned with
happy palm trees reads
in bold blue letters
cable television
king size beds
and slightly larger
the star of the show
micro fridge
available in every room

the rooms of
the decrepit motel
overlook a cemetery
of rusted iron
jutting at odd angles
that play with the mind
in abandoned scrap yards
as far as the eye can see

one can only assume
a cockroach in a red
bell hop uniform
wheels your luggage
to the shag carpet laden
newlywed suite on the
second story facing that
empty building that
proclaims in faded letters
the various businesses
that tried and failed
before the entire place
became draped in sadness

the king size bed with a
heavy, eye butchering
comforter covering the
certain to be
blood stained mattress
under crisply pressed
yellowed thin scratchy sheets
and the sound of sweet
paid for hourly in cash
songs of love making
from the leathery bodies
dryly slapping as their
own king size bed hits
the paper thin walls

but i can’t help but
admire the audacity of
those smiling palm trees
and wonder at the
micro fridge in each
and every single room
a snapshot of the corpse
of the american dream
in bold blue letters
over a sea of tetanus
in flakes of rust blowing
red snowflakes on a
crisp autumn afternoon