Old enough but not quaint: the pink
or aqua-blue rancher with roadside pool.
Eleven white doors and windows
and air-conditioning units in a row,
an ice-maker, exhausted, in back
of the manager’s office. Beyond that—bare trees,
another wheat field, nothing.
The stained grey carpeting warms your bare feet
and mildew only blooms in the bathroom, green
where the plumbing’s out of sight; the Zenith’s
yellow screen, even the orange bedspread,
its worn out rib-cord—all of this, paid for, remains
a room, despite its clarity, its unforgiving light, remains almost
for you alone, three empties gleaming
on the nightstand by noon. Later, a phrase
you’ve repeated all day turns permanent; dusk
smears the broken windows with gold.
Flick off the light switch. The landscape rings.