Motel vibes

A neon hum flickers against the windshield,

half-lit vacancy sign breathing in and out,

like it’s been up too long,

like it’s thinking about closing its eyes.

The air smells like old coffee and asphalt,

gasoline ghosts curling through the night.

A woman in a denim jacket smokes by the ice machine,

flicks ash into the parking lot cracks,

watching the road stretch out forever.

Inside, the clerk barely looks up,

radio murmuring something slow,

something meant for people who don’t sleep.

A key slides across the counter, cool brass,

room 104, second door on the left.

TV static hums against the walls,

wood-paneled ghosts holding their breath,

bedspread in a pattern older than memory.

A slow ceiling fan stirs cigarette air

and time forgets to move forward.

Out by the vending machine,

a man in a white tank top presses coins into metal,

waits for something sweet, something cold.

The machine groans, lets the can drop,

echoing through the empty corridor.

Highway lights blink like tired eyes.

Somewhere, an engine starts.

Somewhere, a story ends.

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