The White Sands Motel
1.
Here there’s no rainy season.Sun scalds my forehead,yet the pool is empty. Beside it,a toppled table, its glass surface shattered.The asphalt is too hot for bare feet.
2.
Far away: white hillocksand white dunes under a deepblue sky. Swirling winds rake groovesinto the dunes. A glass of winein one hand, I lower my binoculars.
3.
An old man sweeps sandfrom the motel’s lobby. Still,sand is everywhere: in my blazer’s pockets,under the glass of that photograph,on my plate of tangerine sections.
4.
What do I see through binoculars?The charred remnants of a campfire?A vermilion lizard skitteringacross a dune? A putrefaction on the sandresembling a man? I sip my wine.
5.
The brochure says: “. . . a continental breakfastserved each morning.” So I rise,shower, shave, and tuck a handkerchiefinto my breast pocket. In the lobby:a dish…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2022