Western Motel, 1957

after Edward Hooper

You look anxious on the edge
of that bed, back straight, knuckles 
curled over the footboard
like you’re ready to stand
and leave. But you just got here—
the bed, still made. After a long 
car ride, I like to lie down, feel 
the cool cotton fluff of a pillow 
against the back of my neck.
Why don’t you kick off your pumps, 
slip out of that maroon dress,
take a nap? You can set your suitcases 
on the luggage racks later, hang up 
that blue jacket. Were you looking 
outside before I barged in?
That picture window’s lit up
like a movie screen. Now playing: 
your Kearney-Green Buick—
engine still warm and ticking.
Long yellow hills, big western sky, 
empty road stretching both ways. 
Maybe you’re asking yourself 
What am I doing here? Is that it?
Once I drove from California
to Connecticut in a gray Corolla—
no job, no home. My mother
just died. Sometimes it’s good 
to be nowhere, to begin again
from nothing. The gooseneck 
lamp on the nightstand has no bulb.
Call the front desk—dial zero.

Read more from Issue 21.2.