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palm on roadair conditioner makes nothing but noise.

everything is too much trouble.

people walk the breezeways slow,

careful with coffee and vanilla-flavoured creamer,

Danish pastries in plastic packs, cinnamon rolls:

a complimentary breakfast in white Styrofoam.

 

packing in a frenzy to vacate by ten

dragged back into your past by a rerun

of a 70s kids show on cable TV.

fuelled by wakefulness, overdosed on sucrose,

we’re a hundred miles down the road

before we remember what we’ve forgotten.

 

the random stuff the maid found under the bed

when you’d gone, stacked it in her trolley

or chucked it in the trash:

the lost stuff of your existence.

 

sometimes you can tell the story of your life

from the things you left behind in motel rooms.

 

Photo by Belinda.

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