nighttime at the Candlewood Suites
here in this bounded collection of beige halls
where the men with salt-&-pepper mustaches
walk slowly in their Steelers jackets
toward numbered metal doors like monastic cells
stuccoed walls & half-used bulletin boards
with notices of faceless, voiceless welcome
the heater kicks on for a few minutes
then the room sinks back into silence
on the tiny stove sits a tiny pot beside
a tiny coffee maker that holds enough for (only) one
outside the window the trucks moan across the overpass
sucked into the night forever in a moment
/ / /
Jason Crane
17 January 2018
Pittsburgh PA
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