HIGHWAY 5

Between rooms 3 and 4, cornered in tight,

blinking randomly and humming

a fat motor tune is the soda machine at the

highway 5 motel.

 

Trucks run the road, their tires singing for home.

Horns beep on frontage roads, where cars park

and threats are heard.

 

A warm day slips into passing, opening to

cool night breezes. Neon’s blink for food

and bars. A greasy aroma wafts over the

parking lot.

 

A tired car with the dust from three states

and sweaty collars rolls to a noisy stop.

$35.00 for a room and a towel. Come morning

the road opens for business.

 

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