CHEAP MOTELS OF MY YOUTH a Poem by: George Bilgere

They lay somewhere between

the Sleeping In The Car era

and my current and probably final era,

the Best Western or Courtyard Marriott era.

The Wigwam. Log Cabin. Kozy Komfort

Hiway House. Star Lite. The Lazy A.

Just off the interstate, the roar

of the sixteen-wheelers all night long.

The dented tin door opening to the parking lot,

the broken coke machine muttering to itself.

“Color TV.” “Free HBO.” “Hang Yourself

in Our Spacious Closets.” A job interview

at some lost-in-the-middle-of-nowhere

branch campus of some agricultural college

devoted to the research and development

of the soybean and related by-products.

Five-course teaching load, four of them

Remedial Comp. Candidate

must demonstrate familiarity

with the basic tenets of Christian faith.

Chance of getting the job

one in a hundred. Lip-sticked

cigarette butt under the bed.

Toilet seat with its paper band,

“Sanitized for Your Protection,”

dead roach floating in the bowl.

As the free HBO

flickers in the background,

you stare in the cracked mirror

at a face too young, too full of hope

to deserve this. And you wait

for the Courtyard Marriott era to arrive.