Through the motel walls I hear the accreted sex of years,
of mothers and fathers on lunch break, loaded soccer players
after practice. It winds like a golden current and wraps around itself
like ivy. It hisses, thuds. It slams into the alarm clock and tells me
to get up, Alfred, get up, hurry up it's time.
Wendy--the waitress across the street in Lafiglia--cooks up
a mean St Louis BBQ. I am sure she has never mouthed those
thimbles.
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