Motel

by Sarah Pazen

In this desert,
one motel sits amid dried dirt
bleached from the sun. The few footprints
yet to be erased lay covered by styrofoam cups
and once-colored wrappers–all fading
like the stripes of the road
that cuts across the sand.

Cover them with your own
and try to peep into the windows.
The front door is cracked,
opening onto a strip of the floor
with a later of dust, time forming a path
to lead an owner back
from their five-minute break
stretched to years to years to years.

Ring the bell that sits still on the front desk,
send its echoes throughout the room
while the scent of past smokes blanket
the last traces of traveler’s woes
lingering in the air.

One forgotten motel sits amid dried dirt
in the middle of the desert;
a dozen empty rooms and the vacancy unlit,
the light inside long since burnt out
like a cigarette left to smoulder.