Motel Noir

by Zara Raab

In one corner, a chair;
near the door, another,
cover in mottled blue,
twin beds like box cars
jutting into the room,
beds crisply made, prim as
matrons, lit by a small
dim lamp at the headboard.
Opposite beds, a dresser,
a Bible in the drawer,
glass of mottled silver,
in back, toilet, shower,
sink, another mirror,
nothing reflected there.
Carpet of mottled rose,
a swirling weave, yawning
to short, dark-paneled walls,
a key on the bureau —
no, two keys, hers and yours,
you, studying the mirror.
In it a woman lies
on the box car bed, heels
dangling; she’s getting
ready for the next move.
Don’t suppose this is home.
Think of it as a scene
from a film.  When the big
screen goes dark, that’s your cue
to get up and go out.