Monday, May 18, 2020

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 -

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

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