The fluorescents buzz and hum,
an old golfer on the muted tv,
the only lights in this place.
1am Pacific time, and I’m lost.
“Try Hofsa’s Haus. Pink building.
Take a right at the next street, then a left.
The bathroom is right there.”
I don’t remember the bathroom,
only the relief, ready to try again.
Follow her directions to the pink
German motel. No one answers
the bell. No one answers the phone.
I have no where to go, to be.
I sit on the hood of the yellow Camaro
top down, palms flattened on warm steel.
I can smell salt and stone. The sky
matches my shirt; there is a noticeable absence
of bugs, of humidity. I lay back,
three feet of hair propped under my head.
I could sleep here. I could live here
in this one square mile town.

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