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Poetry

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poetry and digital art

American Summer

Poems written while traveling.

By the Motel Pool 


Outside the windows of room 313,
by the door to 319, young palms

are in bloom.  The round
wall thermometer reads

ninety-eight degrees.  Most
of the guests seem quite sure

of what to do.  The middle-aged woman
in the white and blue swimsuit

slips out of her thongs and walks
down the white, glimmering steps

into the pool.  Gold hoop earrings.
Her sunglasses and sun scarf.  Yet

the retired couple can't stop
rubbing lotion into their skin

while a man talks with a woman
on a chaise lounge, and scratches

his chest.  In a white uniform,
stockings, and shoes, the indian maid

stares.  From the third-floor balcony
she stares down at the pool.




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