west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went toroom 302.
they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s
on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the
cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.
she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of
the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he
undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old
but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day
ever.
then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and
his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over
and grabbed him between the legs, bent over
and went down on him.
he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.
finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a
miracle, but soon it ended, and when she
went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks
thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never
know.
she came out and they sat in bed
making small talk.
“I’m going to shower now,” he told her,
“I’ll be out soon.”
“o.k., cutie,” she said.
he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the
perfume, the woman-smell.
“hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.
“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the
shower.
he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom
door and stepped out.
the motel room was empty.
she was gone.
on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door
open: nothing there but coat hangers.
then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear,
his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,
all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everything.
on another impulse he looked under the bed.
nothing.
then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,
standing on the dresser.
he walked over and poured a drink.
as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser
mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.
he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself
in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.
he had no idea what to do next.
he carried the whiskey, back to the bed, sat down,
lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the
boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat
and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and
forth.
the young man on the bus stop bench
he sits all day at the bus stop
at Sunset and Western
his sleeping bag beside him.
he’s dirty.
nobody bothers him.
people leave him alone.
the police leave him alone.
he could be the 2nd coming of Christ
but I doubt it.
the soles of his shoes are completely
gone.
he just laces the tops on
and sits and watches traffic.
I remember my own youthful days
(although I traveled lighter)
they were similar:
park benches
street corners
tarpaper shacks in Georgia for
$1.25 a week
not wanting the skid row church
hand-outs
too crazy to apply for relief
daytimes spent laying in public parks
bugs in the grass biting
looking into the sky
little insects whirling above my head
the breathing of white air
just breathing and waiting.
life becomes difficult:
being ignored
and ignoring.
everything turns into white air
the head fills with white air
and as invisible women sit in rooms
with successful bright-eyed young men
conversing brilliantly about everything
your sex drive
vanishes and it really
doesn’t matter.
you don’t want food
you don’t want shelter
