This poem is one which you need to read for yourself and decide for yourself what it means. Of course, this is all you can do as a reader of poetry. Rarely can a person who reads poetry ever have certitude that they actually understand what the poet is saying. But such is poetry.



A lonely street, a rundown motel,

a dirty bathroom, white tile’s seen hell,

been there from the beginning and will see the end.


The midnight trysts, the daytime drinking,

stained with vomit, with blood, with sex,

owned by one, home to the rest.


Cracked mirror, faulty faucet,

lose the wager, place a bet,

a place to exist, a place to reset.


A room to lie in, a bed for truth,

no maid, no cleaning,

dented walls, peeling ceiling.


A story to be told,

a story to be made,

a story to fade,

a room to be sold.

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