Motel Clerk: Dusk

So much, so little under the barometer of lonely light; waves have hit a silence, before the morning grasping, and just after the sun gets up (reminding me of an O’Hara poem) intractable, through the hidden fury Of stasis: ‘oh where have you seen me before’: repression, sadness, Hershey bars, trash of the meaningless world of shame. Now I ask of you to pass before me with your borrowed keys, and your desolate vision of travelers. You’ve gone like nomads, while I am with my kid who runs like white molecules through lobbies, dressed in young hopes, vending at strangeness. Out of a machine emitting change, comes my own simple vision: a mustard seed.