Vague memory

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Picture, if you will, the old, run-down motel sign ahead on a darkened road. It flickers in rhythm with the wind, and shivers as the busy cars fly by. Illuminated gases dance their praise to all who have resorted to such a flimsy form of shelter on similar dark nights. They welcome a new soul in need of rest, bring peace to the weary, and comfort to those who used to stare, in wonder, at the “open” signs in the window before entering the store for a Christmas adventure. The parking lot reads the history of countless truckers and their ever-long trans-U.S. excursions. A bell rings as a door opens to reveal a young Indian kid hungry for tips and ready to earn them. Lights wander lazily in and out of reality as you pass down the aged hallway and set your first foot on a creaking motel stair…
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Motel Stairs

Crumbled crunch on asphalt aged,
Blinking lights and cabarets,
Familiar taste of moldy air,
Accent of a foreign page.

Sight it out with sandy eyes,
A backlot room as midnight strikes,
Lock the car and windows too,
Ascend the stair, an aging stile.

Creaks and groans and swings some too,
Steel protests with every step,
Concrete cracks dye good hairs grey,
As motel stairs quite often do.

Rusted spots on outdoor paint,
Echoed steps wake flick-‘ring lights,
A muffled cough this soundtrack night,
Then through the door all sounds grow faint….