The Unregistered Sun

Somewhere in America
there's a hotel lobby,
really clean, like a preacher's ashtray,
with a detailed burgundy rug covering
an especially ratty section of carpeting.

Slanted flashes of Norman Rockwell,
Hendrix and Einstein, playing strip poker
with peppermint prostitutes and a D.J. named
Sin. They'll keep the
light on for you...

I don't ask for a wake up call,
the concrete curtains have me
regretting filling this vacancy.

I'd be angry, but the only light in my room
is a 40 watt light bulb, and I've never been
that honest.