a poem by Breia Gore
There are those who weep into their woven yellow shoes against
the concrete buildings that frill at the neck, painted cardboard.
Feet away from the revolving door that barely moves,
lamppost stand guard outside, but at night when they are needed
only one works and it scares the women. The tourist coffee hands
shake to tip the lobby boy who mistreats their luggage, tugs the handles
out of the black trunks like suffocating lemon slices in a desolite cave.
Many find new points and mouths in these home-suken motels, while I
sit, and watch, at the stoplight, only pass through their vacation for a second.
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