Room 21, Anson Motor Inn

we rolled into town
on the edge of dusk
wallets bursting with cash
cash for everything.

six weeks in room 21,
now the cleaning ladies
call you dulzura through winks and smiles.
you answer
when you’re capable of speaking.

we leave for provisions,
following the trail through the grass
stepping in our bootprints again and again.
you fill your bag with chocolate
and i fill mine with soda.
it’s never enough sugar,
never enough;
we always go back for more.

you take pills
and fall asleep on the bed.
your fingers fall asleep
reaching for my head.
we sleep with the lights on every night
so the darkness stays away
and to trick ourselves into thinking
it’s a different time of day.

our items become weapons of fear,
empty bottles and pizza receipts,
yawning in and out of our dreams,
and the pile of bugs by the television
that you arrange by genus
then species
then you arrange by color
and then by wing size
and then one night you scoop them all up
and throw them into the wind
so they can fly one last time, at least.

we fill up the empty space with plans about places
and rich words, and convincing statements about the future.
we compose odes to towns without highways
and we do this into the night
every night
and somehow we’re healing
one town at a time.

Published by


Freelance human being.

2 thoughts on “Room 21, Anson Motor Inn”

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