The Motel Room Poem by Jack Worthington

Resting on a two lane highway, not a destination, but a way station for weary travelers
Some adventurers, some dreamers, most just seeking comfort from the night
They've come to rest, as tomorrows test, will be grueling pure delight
There this room, greets its guests who reek of cigarettes and hamburgers.


The room knows well what's in store, as it's seen this all before, again and again forever bored
Never invited on the ride, like a mongrel on a chain, never fed and seldom clean
People come and make a mess, they spill their fruitjuice on the bed, and the toiletries they hoard
Never waving fond goodbyes, never smiling as they turn their backs and hurry from the scene.


In the afternoon the women come, speaking in tongues unrecognized, their soft yet hurried touch is not enough to sooth the ghosts inside
They forever pace from side to side, as if waiting to depart on some destination
Peering out the window from inside, no sleep for them tonight, they illuminate a lamp in their frustration
They gaze through the glass, trying to pass, but in this their calvary they must abide.