Skip to main content

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.


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading