She left an empty
bottle of rye on the rumpled bed sheet.
She hadn’t switched off the bedside lamp
and saved the dirty dishes for me.
Enough I thought while lighting my cigarette
to leave a trail for her thirsty lover.
We had sailed far from our
kingdom of roaches and feigned laughter
to end up crashed in this tiny motel room
with its dirty yellow shades
and an army of gawking bottles
scattered on the floor.
Poetry By the author writing as Gurkski