Pretty yellow houses all in a row,
Neat and Tidy like tulips;
But I am a little white motel.
No quiet suburban streets
Sun themselves at my feet—
I wait by the interstate
For tall men with pressed shirts
And big shoes to curl up in my bathtub.
Sometimes they cry.
Sisters giggle in a queen-sized bed
(One with brown curls and one with yellow)
Not knowing one day they will forget how,
And gray-eyed women lie to their husbands
About sleeping alone.
When the sun climbs over the prairie
I will be no more than a spot in your rearview mirror;
Fading fast and far
Between the whispering grasses.