aplus
03-29-2006, 07:28 AM
http://slumz.boxden.com/showthread.php?t=648827
My open mic drop...Feedback appreciated...
Night Shift Revelations
At the Gates Motel, the overnight clerk
has a Bachelors in English
and a pulsing migraine
from staying awake too long.
He’s been daydreaming about writing a novel
for the past two years
based on all the customers
who pass through the door.
Some nights it would be a drama,
about the gruff single father
who comes in holding a six-pack
of Old Milwaukee, complaining about
vacancies and sky high prices.
As he waits nervously
for a credit card to clear,
he balls up a day’s worth of tension
in the palm of his right hand
and smacks his daughter
for asking too many questions
and not standing still.
Other nights it would be chick lit,
about the good-hearted hooker
who yearns for a better life.
When she stumbles through the entrance
with a sharp-dressed gentleman,
her dark, glossy eyes become fixated
on the array of room keys
hanging on the back wall,
almost as if they represent
a final shot at both salvation and sin,
hoping that someday she can find freedom
from laying down and opening up
while a john bangs her
and a clunky bed frame
against floral papered walls.
Tonight, if this guy wasn’t busy manning
the front desk for minimum wage,
he would write stories about getting away
and traveling on the open road,
driving rapidly down empty rural highways
until his mind becomes just like his car
dirty
cluttered
filled with outdated music
with the windows wide open
so he can listen to the wind
whisper its most embarrassing secrets.
My open mic drop...Feedback appreciated...
Night Shift Revelations
At the Gates Motel, the overnight clerk
has a Bachelors in English
and a pulsing migraine
from staying awake too long.
He’s been daydreaming about writing a novel
for the past two years
based on all the customers
who pass through the door.
Some nights it would be a drama,
about the gruff single father
who comes in holding a six-pack
of Old Milwaukee, complaining about
vacancies and sky high prices.
As he waits nervously
for a credit card to clear,
he balls up a day’s worth of tension
in the palm of his right hand
and smacks his daughter
for asking too many questions
and not standing still.
Other nights it would be chick lit,
about the good-hearted hooker
who yearns for a better life.
When she stumbles through the entrance
with a sharp-dressed gentleman,
her dark, glossy eyes become fixated
on the array of room keys
hanging on the back wall,
almost as if they represent
a final shot at both salvation and sin,
hoping that someday she can find freedom
from laying down and opening up
while a john bangs her
and a clunky bed frame
against floral papered walls.
Tonight, if this guy wasn’t busy manning
the front desk for minimum wage,
he would write stories about getting away
and traveling on the open road,
driving rapidly down empty rural highways
until his mind becomes just like his car
dirty
cluttered
filled with outdated music
with the windows wide open
so he can listen to the wind
whisper its most embarrassing secrets.