i spent a week in Odessa. a Motel One room <br />visited by a depressed cocaine addict. <br />she told stories of her kids, while we lay <br />undressed searching for cigarettes on the floor. <br />room 124 was happy hour <br />for the prostitutes. <br /> <br />imagine a grown man afraid <br />of an empty bed. <br /> <br />where the street lights lay horizontal <br />i rode passanger seat, while Richard <br />drove us the hell out of there. <br />every two hours we pull to the side <br />of the road and write in a compositon book <br />about the week, or what we remember: <br /> <br />No Doz and Red Bull do not, <br />repeat, do not keep you awake very long. <br /> <br />and i pretened to sleep when we hit <br />Arizona time (just outside of Safford) . i repeat, <br />over sad songs on the radio, a poem i wrote <br />on her white wall in Autsin. her mother <br />scrubbed this away: <br /> <br />a poem written in 4/4 time, under highway lights <br />somewhere between Texas and Arizona: <br /> <br />maybe we're a few hours apart, maybe it's light here <br />when you're dark, but there are always a few moments <br />we can share, <br />taking a bath in the sunshine.<br /><br />Travis Bowden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/odessa-texas-where-death-vacations/
