A Thousand Ghosts

In the vacant motel rooms Lies the dust from moldy suitcases, Long-dead echoes of hurried zippers, Empty, stilled hangers, and stray hair pins. The inevitable bible in the top drawer. Like a museum holds all the artifacts, But lacks the bodies, the souls of their owners, The rooms dividers hold rigidly. They had to fit themselves in between Certain hours of a day. Economy was the religion, With the clock as orderly ruler. Moons or suns irrelevant, sunshine or rain. No traces allowed upon walls, No lipstick on mirrors, No graffiti, no names. Out of all the breathing and excreting, Laughter and tears, Amid the jostle of the living and dying, Not a hair remains. Rooms sterile as the Arctic, Though each have a thousand ghosts.