marooned

There is a soundtrack to this sadness, the hum of air conditioners and the occasional whine of the interstate. In the early dawn, “the golden hour,” I sit besides the dried up swimming pool of this mid century modern motel as if Edward Hopper had arranged the scene. The long light slips below the blown out palm trees, there never was a chance of shade from the glare of memory. Jesus hides somewhere in the cloudless sky. Warm beer and watered vodka have kept me through another night. I blow smoke signals, but as the butts pile up I know you'll never come. My car sits in the parking lot like the lone coin in a wishing well. There is the road I came in on but there is no reason to leave this squalid oasis of a dead end. Besides the maid smiles easily even though I have never seen her eyes




.