Last Night in a Cheap Motel Before Heading to the Caribbean

The clothes continue to spin on the ceiling fan, having been washed with Castile soap in a Ziploc bag. My Girl sounds so good on a Wurlitzer backed by congas. I might have caught Hepatitis-B at the pharmacy today while getting an immunization for Hepatitis-B. I’m leaving this town tomorrow on one of the incessant buses, missing the stop this time might mean I’m heading for the South Pole.  Has anyone ever dreamed at the South Pole and if so, did the dream involve a long-legged man juggling clouds on turtleback or was it more impressionistic, a mosaic of shadows contingent on distance and aperture?  Which way is north from the South Pole, which way isn’t, what’s the area code?  What’s the frequency, Dan, where have you gone my blue, wide sun?  It’s a garden of icebergs out the window, and my thoughts of light behave as wave and particle.  My backpack’s demanding to be stuffed, my trappings askance on the bed around me. My underwear circling overhead, my damp, many-pocketed pants smothering heat from the TV.  My survival knife trembling.  My ambitious condoms and personal lubricant donated unused to the bedside drawer.  Two 99-cent rain ponchos enjoying their last night together, swaying slowly on the clothesline to the Wurlitzer’s churn.

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