We rarely talk, except through blue jeaned
knees beneath a diner counter.
On Saturdays at Wash and Fold we drop
the family clothes, then drive in separate cars
to the motel room on 202. We stand
between the yellow spreads of noon twin beds.
Greasy headboards bare brass screwed
into a wall where the prints of strangers shine.
The fisheye lens of a metal door is peephole empty
sunlit view. The parking lot breaks in the jalousie
windows above a beige-chipped air conditioner whine.
A noise to drown the moans of Pay Per View.
Cracks in mirror split merry-go-round
motion as cool hands hold your hips.
One more spin to fill our mouths
with another tongue.
You pull up pants. Rings and keys
drop in a telltale pocket. I clip ID to my belt,
glance back toward two beds – one tightly tucked,
the other a pot of sheets boiled over.
First publication: The Pickled Body, 2016