Sunday Morning Motel, Oregon Coast

Sunday Morning Motel, Oregon Coast

My memory is a wreck, like my hair the morning after yesterday.

Cracker colored light wades through the thick curtains; shrapnel shards

of it on the floor, strewn like highlights cut from a beauty school mistake.

I am rolling away from it: memory, yesterday’s tomorrow, the light.  I am tucking

the badly used motel foam pillow between my knees, hugging my elbows.  I am ignoring

my thirst, the clock, the tightness coiled like a spring in my heart, the tightness

that keeps it beating only half way, a tick without the tock,

a metronome stuck on the downbeat.

I only sleep a little these days and my dreams are short, shocked trailers.

Their story lines have no arc.  They move from a to b along a brief line and

they leave no myths, no lessons in their wakes.  The cast is a bored crew of wraiths,

same as today’s yesterday’s night.

My eyes are blurry.  The lack of focus feels like comfort, like what comfort

might feel like.  Like my imagination of that.

The 50/50 sheets crackle.  These sheets don’t rustle.  More like a fire’s crackle

and less like a wind’s rustle.  Mercifully I feel the mangy bedspread is just about

off the end of the bed.  The alarm blinks at me, and in me, the alarm blinks.

And then your arm…

along the back of my head, through my hair, your fingers.

I remember the time, it was 3am, we made it to an awkward forgiveness

before we passed out.

I am feeling for you across the empty space I wake up with. I am feeling for you

behind me on a soggy Sunday morning, feeling for you in my disjointed awakening.

Feeling you touch me, imperfect, awakening tired, both of us still half mad, still bruised.

Feeling you turn me, turn to me, hold me.

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One Response to Sunday Morning Motel, Oregon Coast

  1. P. Voyles says:

    Yesterday’s tomorrow is reality today. We can’t change it, but we can change today’s tomorrow. Your picture looks bleak, but it is clear over the horizon.

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