Found it. Reference to Cronkite and the price date it. By the way, both Motel 6 places referred to burned to the ground shortly after I wrote the poem. I thought I ought to demand protection from anyone or anything I wrote about. The poem is based on syllable count, not rhythm.
THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELER REMEMBERS LOST LOVE
"Motel 6": no lobby--
a formica counter,
a woman whose hair is too black
and, yes, they do have a single.
I fill out the card and,
remembering the stink
of Lysol at the last place, ask,
"May I take a look at the room?"
I mean, of course, "A sniff."
She must have guessed. Well--no.
But clearly I cannot have grasped
the fine points of the protocol.
An icy lunacy
pinches her nostrils shut;
her face stiffens like a chicken
several hours in the freezer.
"We don't do that. Sorry."
Now I've got five seconds
to figure out just what the hell
is going on around this place
and what to do. Do I
stand on ceremony?
Try to match hauteur with hauteur?
Uphold honor? Say: "BYE LADY!"?
No. I knuckle under,
mumble, fill out the card.
This side of Pittsburgh you won't find
another $8.95 room.
Humility pays off.
The room is very nice.
The sheets have creases, and no hairs.
No sign of tryster or trucker.
No Lysol stink. I'm fixed:
a fifth of Inver House
peanuts, some pickled eggs, Walter
Cronkite, and Gideon Bible.
What more could a man want?
Plenty--starting with you,
saying, "Give me five more minutes
to hang on to my modesty." |
