Blue Bird Motel
Tanya Young
Across the street from the
Burma Shave billboard
And pasture of cows
Clerk Smiley Owens clocks-in
For the night shift
The noise of the ice machine
Clank of the air conditioner
And buzzing of the new neon sign
Sound like a rock concert
As he checks his room inventory
And hopes for no trouble
from Shorty Mason, room # 15
Who’s a broken hallelujah
Lifting his head up to the crunch of gravel
Pastor Johnny Mann climbs stiffly
Out of his shiny blue sedan
The shut-off engine
Ticking as it cools
Nervous as a fly in a glue-pot
He asks for room #66
As he once again explains
He just had to take a break
From his houseful of children
And stressed-out wife
Just as Pastor is turning his key
Lily Parker walks up
Shoulders, back and thighs
Shimmering with mystery
The couple quickly settle
On the bleach-smelling sheets
As the Magic Fingers gets a workout
Meanwhile, Little Albert Wilson, room # 35
Has just snuffed out a thick brown cigar
And thrown a Gideon at the headboard
As he sits in 60-watt darkness
Reading a trash novel
Captain Artie Midgett, room #34
The thick motel curtains shut tight
Hears the thud as he folds
Messages from his ex-wife
Into a fleet of paper boats
Tossing them into a suitcase
His memory a midnight junkyard
Following a raw, hurting day
Mrs. Jaylee Thomas, room #55
Is lying still between two slices of sheets
As she says goodnight to her son, Tom
Working his phone in the other bed
They have escaped from a house
Where roses grew but left their thorns
Both just asking the world to deserve them
Zippo Waters, room # 33
Black and white striped leather boots
Resting by the door
Is as serious as the business end of a 45
As he tosses and turns
In the crumbled up bedsheets
Flames gnawing in his head
Planning his day of revenge for tomorrow
Viola Beacham, room #12
Is awake as she tries
To take apart the deep stitches
Of her nightmare
She slightly cracks the dusty drapes
To the bright parking lot
Noticing how things change
Two jeeps arrive and the Chevrolet left
The Ford-pickup has a flat tire
She watches what comes and goes
Tomorrow they leave
Smiley Owens clocks-out
Fannie Bottoms clocks-in
Rooms get cleaned
And the day-rate begins
It’s all a broken sideshow
Tanya Young, a retired journalist from coastal North Carolina, moved to Osprey six years ago. Immediately she sought out creative writing outlets with Suncoast Writers Guild where all roads intersected with poetry. She is active in several Sarasota poetry groups and recently co-founded Bards on the Bay. She has studied in several workshops and is a member of Wildacres Writers. She also is a potter and collage artist.