HoboEye Poetry:
Christopher Murray, Portland, Oregon, USA


The White Sands Motel

1.

Here there is no rainy season. Sun scalds
one’s forehead incessantly. And yet,
the pool is empty. Beside it a table
is toppled, its glass surface shattered. The black
macadam driveway is too hot for bare feet.

2.

As far as the eye can see: white hillocks
and white dunes under a deep blue sky.
Swirling winds rake grooves into
the dunes. A glass of zinfandel in one hand,
I raise the black binoculars to my eyes.

3.

A broom is used several times a day
to sweep sand from the motel’s lobby. Still,
sand is everywhere: in the pockets of my black
blazer, under the glass of that framed photograph,
on my plate of tangerine sections.

4.

What do I see through the binoculars?
The blackened remnants of a campfire?
A vermilion lizard skittering across a dune?
Some putrefaction on the sand resembling
a man? I take a swig from my wine glass.

5.

My brochure says: “...a continental breakfast
served each morning.” So I rise, shower, shave,
and stuff a handkerchief in my breast pocket.
However, all I find in the lobby is a glass dish
of chalky mints and a cup of black coffee.

6.

The motel’s neon sign reads “no vacancy”
in a violet looping cursive. So where are
all the guests? Today a small black boy
in glasses knocked on my door. He tried
to sell me soap from the housekeeper’s cart.

7.

My room is austere. No carpet covers
the stone floor. The mattress is excessively firm.
With no lamp, my room is black at night.
Sometimes, however, the moon shines through
the sand-scratched glass of the skylight.

8.

Last night I dreamt that a man
with a crutch was traversing a desert. A small
black fox followed him, occasionally trying
to steal the crutch. Angry, the man struck
the fox, shattering the crutch of glass.

9.

I, however, did not get to sleep right away.
A noisy neighbor kept me awake. I heard what
sounded like a glass jar full of pennies being
poured again and again into a brass chalice.
I just lay in bed staring into the blackness.

10.

The conference has been canceled.
I could barely understand the message
so poor is my cell phone reception. In frustration,
I punched the glass encasing the fire extinguisher.
My knuckle has started to turn black.

11.

How long have I been here? Why did my boss
send me without colleagues? Is there a town
nearby with a night life? Are there any black
women staying in this motel? How many pairs
of glasses could be made with all this sand?

12.

Today a new President will be inaugurated.
You’d never know it by sitting in the motel’s
lobby. The lugubrious concierge stares
at the TV screen. But the TV is off. Reflected
in the black glass: miles and miles of white sand.

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