Pacific Sands

A room to spend no time in

The phone in the Pacific Sands Motel LA
( No longer extant )
with the red flashing light on top. 

Each fingered, grease smeared, button
worn smooth by countless contacts,
unloved, scattered or burried now. 

You pull back the bed covers to a murmuration of flies
and a large, greying, growing wet stain 
which you will not sleep on under any circumstance. 

There is almost nothing else in this room
apart from five pot plants,
well tended, on a rust coloured credenza. 

You leave. Lock the door. 
You are not sure why
you lock the room, you have left nothing of your own inside

not even your repulsion. 
( That no-one in their right mind would want
nor want to stay here seems beyond doubt )

You idly wonder what sickening stories the pillows have to tell,
whereupon a horror, of a seismic magnitude, overwhelms you.

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