Old Roach Motel

Holes worn in the floor where your feet go
and sweat lines on the worn out wood desk show though

I know they couldn’t have come from me.

The curtain's on the window closed.
The corner cable runs along the wall to the TV
where the shows are snowy and getting sicker
as the light across the tabletop flickers.

Though shabby and old, the dark atmosphere
glows below the neon motel sign like
many a weary traveler’s shrine.
Within this broken room I sense a ton of fear
and pondering was done in here.

While the smoke was filtered away long ago,
cigarette burns in the carpet, grease on the pillow,
show vibrant as the day they were forged
with the condoms in the sheets,
while in the bathroom the remains disgorged
of alcohol, of poisoning, or just bad meals sit
post-digested and arresting me to kneel!

The blood stains on the fabric embracing me
their pains suffered so near—
some wrist cutter’s final year.
Within these walls there seems no erasing
just what has happened in here.

NEXT

--Farewell Frat Row