They lay somewhere between
the Sleeping In The Car era
and my current and probably final era,
the Best Western or Courtyard Marriott era.

​

The Wigwam. Log Cabin. Kozy Komfort
Hiway Haven. Star Lite. The Lazy A.

​

Just off the interstate, the roar
of the sixteen-wheelers all night long.
The dented tin door opening to the parking lot,
the broken coke machine muttering to itself.

​

“Color TV.” “Free HBO.” “Hang Yourself
in Our Spacious Closets.” A job interview
at some lost-in-the-middle-of-nowhere
branch campus of some agricultural college
devoted to the research and development
of the soybean and related byproducts.

​

Five-course teaching load, four of them
Remedial Comp. Candidate
must demonstrate familiarity
with the basic tenets of Christian faith.
Chance of getting the job 
one in a hundred. Lip-sticked
cigarette butt under the bed.
Toilet seat with its paper band, 
“Sanitized for Your Protection,” 
dead roach floating in the bowl. 

​

As the free HBO 
flickers in the background, 
you stare in the cracked mirror
at a face too young, too full of hope
to deserve this. And you wait
for the Courtyard Marriott era to arrive.

​

—from Cheap Motels of My Youth