Greg Bachar


Noise of your coming arrival:
victory, ticker tape,
parade of realized dreams.

Sometimes a daisy chain
hung on the doorknob
of a vacant motel room
attracts the laughter
of knowing hyenas.

They bring buckets of ice,
bibles, and road maps
to mark your lover's trail.

You push a button.
A red light says:
she is here, or: she is there,
or: she will be where you are,
sooner or later,
sooner than even now.

There's a knock on the motel door.
She knows you,
there's no need for words:
you have a whole roll of quarters
for the vibrating bed.