poem a harglefagofh

PACKING A BOOK BOUND FOR POCATELLO

Packing a book bound for Pocatello;
it's been years since I was there. When,
after eighteen hours on the road, I
found the cheapest motel in its winding
avenues, passing a group of kids playing
baseball in the park at 10 pm, all their parents
watching from the stands while a block over
the pink neon outline of a woman flashes
flashes. And I slept on top of the covers,
waiting to fall alseep, half-watching a show
where a cougar dances among a throng of
younger men, her legs flash like headlights
coming through the narrow crack of the blinds,
and their faces animal-hungry for the chance
to return, to be back next week.
I was on my back,
wondering if my car was safe.