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knight's rooms

 

our hotel on the outskirts of nashville

caters to a down at heel clientele,

scrawny men with long grey hair

and seen better times eyes,

whose lives are winding down slowly,

who wear baseball caps to breakfast

in the never-ending southern rain,

and return gruff ‘good mornings’

while squatting on the walkway

outside their rooms, smoking,

through tenderly cupped hands,

the first cigarette of the day.

 

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