White towels folded into swans
with heads touching—
their hearted bodies trail
the floral bedspread: polyester,
used over and over again.
The bed itself casts a shadow
on desolate paneling.
O bed. O motel. O girl
in white pants—you are voluminous
and shine like the glossed doors
on rows of identical love shacks
punctuated with all-weather
lawn chairs out front.
Clouds ride past the pool,
faces of brick, the oil stains
on parking lot asphalt.
Did someone teach you
to park in a place like this,
between two white parallel
lines stretched like arms
saying come here? In the grass
behind the dumpster you lay
your head on his pale, shirtless
chest. On his skin, warm as
melted butter. It is the blue hour,
floating on quiet water, after
the sun sets, before dark.
with sanitized glasses wrapped
in paper. Love in the violent mist.
In the velvet night. He kisses
the soles of your feet. O girl
in white. Be good and take care.
I haven’t fallen like that in a very long time.