The downdrodden and their struggle for a meager existence.

motel by the week

musty rooms
of transient years
stained tears
of inhabitants before
thirst for promised paint and more.
grouped silently; they await their next visitors -
the guests with few choices, in
whispered voices
who live their lives
by the week
eagerly they seek,
the musty, peeling rooms to
make them their homes.
and though they have not yet arrived, the motel knows they must.
wearily they press toward the sanctuary they have not yet seen;
the respite from the chaos and streets so mean. the bleary-eyed driver aims his wagon
far into the night.
he brings a wife heavy with child and
more children, and carefully-concealed small dog. carefully he guides the ancient, thin tires in search of the new home; a home to work from for a while - there’s work around here he’s told. a home to live in while he works, until the work is gone and he must drive on.
the room is musty, and it needs paint, and rust streaks the sinks.
but it will be home. for a while.
the children snore now - gentle buzzing to make each other sleep.
orange soda pop rings their lips.
in the morning
they will squirt from
the rooms only door,
squealing with delight, in faded and tattered clothes and smudged faces,
they will scatter to meet their new family - other families by the week,
to play with ephemeral neighbors while mama somehow transforms the room into a home . . .
a home where paint is peeling.
where pain is feeling,
the mean city's
hopelessness
day after day.