No Room

No vacancy does not mean the room is occupied.
Luggage is open upon the unkempt bed
And it’s contents flow out and onto the floor.
The striped walls are stained and faded
As is the painting of a once proud farm house
Bolted to the wall of this roadside relic.
Bottles and brushes are casually strewn
On counters of cheap wood and green formica
As if their  owner thought about using them. Then not.
The greying carpet is pressed and worn thin. Worn flat.
Years of traffic have worked and worked the plush and pile
Down into familiar paths that offer no comfort.
The lights and sounds that stream through the open door
Provide a view, a glimpse, into a neon world forgotten.


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