To the woman at the Red Edge Motel

Some tourist of love

in his cheap suit of longing

will elbow the bar

in the lounge of no last names,

dip his cuff accidentally

in your seven & seven

and ask you to dance

to the faint moan of muzak,

perfume your earrings

with breath mints and gin

as the lights grow yet dimmer

as his hand on the switch

hovers inches away

from the slick red edge

of your hungover heart

with its faded no vacancy sign.