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The Snowflake Motel


ISSUE:  Summer 1985
Always the managers glared
at everyone strangely.
Yes, there were two managers
with nothing to do but tell
women their faces looked best
in a motel lobby.
Young and damp I was alone
with their bulldog in their special parlor.
Blue glass on the table,
gilt-edged books, an ashtray in the shape
of the sunshine state.
Gone gone. When all things
looked the same and tasted no worse
I wasn’t about to count
the drops in the moisture gauge.
I wasn’t about to think
too far into the past.

I would have given anything
to watch a play
in which the more a man sang
the more his velvet pants grew
damp from the exertion.
In summer the snowflakes hole up here.
It is like living in a runoff.
Everyone goes.
I looked for a picture of a temple
for you, but every snowflake
looked like a temple to me.
There are too many temples, I think
A woman who cannot spill a drink
without tears
distresses others greatly. Here
one more sloppy doll sinks
under the year-round Christmas tree. I know.
I know you are about as constant
as the igloos of Florida.
Immediately, I understood these things.
But it is time transience went away to stay.
Do not, do not leave me here please,
no two of us alike.

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