Ramblings on motorcycles, tattoos, alternative everything, politics, war and life in New York City.


We were in NJ,                            
just across the Goethals bridge, in some industrial truck stop of a town
I’d never seen before,
looking for franchised Mexican food and a half-way decent margarita
She pointed out to the neon jumble on the other side of the snow streaked glass.
Ha! I rememeber that motel, she said, chuckling to herself,

in one of her secondhand laughs.
The one your ex-husband took you to?, I asked, recalling an old story.
With the mirrors on the ceiling, and the champagne glass hottub?
No, she said.
A different one. Lots of condoms.
Oh, I said. Who was it, anyone I know?
Doesn’t matter, she replied,

her face turned to the window.
pale in the rising light of the motorway

I felt that old familiar pang
that comes from valuing something
more than its owner


One response

  1. Crafty

    This piece has a very good reality to it. You feel as though you are in that car, the snow streaked windows in a slow drip of the hopelessness of the season. The over-heated air inside the car, dank and sad.
    Nice work, good to see you back writing.

    February 27, 2010 at 12:52 pm

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