Carmel-by-the-Sea

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.”
Pointing.
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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