Alice sits in the motel room
with the radio on.
Her bottle sweats
is almost done.
The AC’s out, as are the tenants:
those with day jobs
and those still driving the state
racing to a destination
they will realize is one bridge too far
and slow, stop
for rest and respite
until the morning.

The morn is far off,
as is the night
and evening is still some hours away
as Alice stands, paces
scuffed heels causing static
kinetic energy generating electric
across this well-worn, sun slatted floor.

As she pulls on her slippery beer
she ponders:
If she leaves,
no one would know she’d been.
If her visitor ever came,
he’d never know when she left.
She could live with that.
She’s waited for him enough times
for little enough reward.
She could leave at any time.

She could leave at any time
but cannot think
where else she’d rather be.
So Alice sits again,
dress riding higher,
listens to the radio
and waits in the motel room
alone.