John Doyle writes

Arguments Outside Motel Windows

Houses were made for murders

eight miles from town,

teens in love

are on the run,

a whistling plague of locusts suddenly silent -

comes to mock those

alone in motel rooms, arguments loud,

getting heated -

sour-milk 

skinned killers saying little on checking-in,  

the horn-rimmed glasses

of lonely penny-counting men -

no newspapers left, 

the rack is empty -

though the rack keeps twisting

and twisting like an argument outside motel windows,

traffic driving past

on the interstate highway,

flies buzz

around oil-drums in the overgrown weeds, examining shit on leaves,

sleeveless-shirted girls on motorbikes

slap men who rev away