|Jan/Feb 2020 Poetry Special Feature|
Airport Motel Haibun
Planes fly over that never seem to land. Winds seem to never blow in from the west. An old long Lincoln Continental is parked the way a plane crashes or a boat shipwrecks on a shore—it's parked on an angle with a flat tire and a front bumper kissing a cement car stops. The moonlight gives a glimpse inside the empty vessel—scattered newspapers and clothing, a hot plate, and a spot on the dash where you suspect St. Christopher's likeness was. The motel shares the parking lot with a Denny's where a young waitress just started her shift—most likely for the next twenty years. Knowing this, everyone tips her just in case what they guess is true. Above the first floor rooms a sign warns that things left behind in parked cars aren't safe.
A sign says to always lock the door.
Sleep even if the mattress crutches.
Tomorrow is not today.