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Ode to the MotelsMary Macpherson
Motel, motel – here's to you with your sliding
door and fumbly key we always try, upside down.
Your regulation room, barely-lit room, refurbished
room, your bed taking up all the room. Motel, motel,
we see giant flowers on the cover pulled so tight,
the close-lipped daisies cover, the matching-the-curtains
cover, your cool sheets and rock mattress – wide
as a boat – that we've rented, together with your contents,
for the night. There's the stumpy bench for our rustling food
bags and crumbs, the dwarf fridge with its ice-cube icebox,
little milk carton (regular or trim?) and implements – knives –
two (one blunt), grater, toaster, fry pan etc, but never a garlic
press. Motel, we sit on your upright, firm, sagging, velour,
over-cushioned sofa to watch the news in stretched images
aided by your spongy remote. But motel we panicked at the No
Vacancy signs and you let us in for your special rate, going
rate, heart-stopping motel-with-a-view rate. Now we have
thin soaps to pop out of flowered packets, round upmarket
ones to claw out of tissue, a springy shower cubicle, and heavy
heavy towels in spanking white or older green. And yes, we
know we could be sleeping in the car, or snarling and desperate,
driving at 10pm, so we had to upgrade to your new chain
rate, where we got a bigger bathroom shelf, smart toilet-roll
holder, skinny closet, a clear view, belle view – mountains plus
water – and a glimpse of the neighbour's pool table inside
their garage. Yes, motel we have all this and scenery safely
framed on your pastel walls, that shut out the roar of logging trucks,
camper vans, slow cars, pass-everything cars and SUVs. For tonight,
tonight our frailties are at rest inside your walls.
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