last chance motel
D.B. Cox

a run-down motel
clings to the shoulders
of a two-lane
highway

a blinking neon sign
shoots holes
through the middle
of a mississippi night—

enfolded in the
semi-darkness
of a lamp-lit room
a man leans over a table

etching straight-razor
phrases into the
pages of a hotel
notepad

recounting hazy days
strung out behind
like a thousand
miles of bad road

way past the
possibility
of finding something
to count on

like
the orbit
of the earth
around the sun

like
moon-swung
oceans guided by
gravity’s hands

like
a lucky star
to steer his feet
past lonely streets

that lead
to places like
this last chance
motel—

where he sits
with pen in hand
a pistol on the table
& a bible in every room

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