a place called motel

the carpet in the elevator has probably been replaced
one hundred and twelve times since she first stepped on it
sandy chubby feet
two years old.
it still looks the same though
electric blue
flat cheap.
the gears rattle and she relaxes
feeling safer
looser.
the bell dings at the third floor and she puts the black plastic keychain tag between her teeth
so she has two hands free
one for her duffel bag
one for her beach chair.
she smells pall malls and budweisers and suddenly she is hungry
for fried shrimp and hushpuppies.
the room smells the same
salty.
she drops her bag and her chair.
she opens the vinyl blackout curtain and squints at the sun bouncing off the cars in the public access lot.
she flops back on the bed.
laying there on top of the comforter
a news report her friend ezra told her about flits through her brain.
something about germs and jizz and lice that could get all over you because they don't wash the motel comforters like they should.
she opens her eyes and wonders whether she'll break down and call her brother tonight.