Fleabag Motel

Bukowski would have loved this place
a real fleabag motel
no fridge
no ice,
some cigarette-burned
ancient RCA TV
bolted to a low bureau,
strips of pressed wood
peeled off,
sits next to a Gideon Bible;
lamps tilt at weird angles,
chairs of ripped fake leather,
in worse shape than Salvation
Army retreads;
grey-white walls marred
with black boot heel marks
near the door;
dirty handprints
smudge the wall near the bed;
a bullet hole marks the wall
just above the TV;
the plastic covers of the electrical sockets
are cracked, split;
brown water stains the gray ceiling tiles.

yeah, this is a Buk place,
a real roach motel.
a six pack, maybe something harder,
would make it habitable.
out back, on the other side of the parking lot,
the steady clickityclack and haunting whistle
of a freight train as it passes a crossing
makes this dump almost romantic.
well, at least the sheets are clean.
and anyway,
all I need is a place to sleep
and shower
and shit.
it’s perfect
for all that.

Anderson, Indiana
Summer 2001