Motels

These squat travelers' limbos
mark outskirts,
thinning city limits.

In winter, pools are holes,
cracked basins
ashened by chlorine.

Neon repeats its dull pulse,
blinks its characters:
the gaps are custom ry.

Rifle the room for gifts,
wafers of soap,
sealed plastic cups, prod

the bolted-down remote
for the benediction
of television, news from

faces of strangers. Sleep,
dream unhaunted.
No one ever lived here.