Lady of the evening

January 9, 2008
By Samuel Hutchins, Buffalo Grove, IL

Trash bags and a shovel
Lie lifeless at the door
With bloodshot eyes
He gropes
Around in the dark
Dead, motel room
Nothing ceases
To remind him
Ice on the window
The pane like daggers
He jerks
The curtains into place
Hides himself
A passionate secret
From the cold rain
Which snakes
Slowly down buildings
And assaults
The soft bed of dirt
In a sharp instant
It gets to him
His vision blurs
His head throbs
He staggers
Drops his wine on the bed
It bleeds
Red into white sheets
A stain that never leaves
He throws up on the floor
On hands and knees
Cut and Scratched
From kicking stilettos
Scars run
Across the tiled floor

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