Day ripples
outside the motel
rising from rooftops and blacktops.
There,
dancing dust devils hold their breath
as trucks pass stagnant air.
Inside,
nicotine plaid curtains split virgin light
and bar the path
scuffled by the shuffle of your boots,
heavy heels fading away
just like you
when you fled from this room
and from this bed,
our names erased in the aftertaste
of stale beer and whiskey
and the money left on the table by the window.
Akeith Walters 2011
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7 comments:
I would have expected more melancholy from myself while reading this piece, but there wasn't much. Just a sad glance at those curtains (nicotine color...just perfect). I think I was in a trance, the cinematography was so lovely and pointed.
Thank you for your comment. I'm glad you stopped by.
There's some ambiguity about the money,
a very sad poem,
a little haunting.
Well done!
Thank you, Matt.
'nicotine plaid curtains split virgin light'
damn, Akeith, that's a great line.
Thank you, sir.
I'm digging your quality over quantity approach. Less is more. One little gem a month or so but each one thoughtful and riveting. Way to go! I've been a slug about reading lately but I always stop by when I want to read some quality stuff. Cheers.
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