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.
Roger Singer 