a night in hell's motel

A memory poem. . . Late one night on our family's roadtrip to Disneyland our van reached a truckstop in Collinga, a small hole in the ground off highway 99 in California with only a Denny's, a gas station, and a Motel 6. Not being able to stay awake while driving and not having made any other arrangements, my dad stopped at Motel 6 to make our night's accommodations. We were all too tired for our 14 hours trek and were begging for a bed to fall asleep on, thus, unable to complain. This is were it all began. . .

A Night In Hell's Motel

Two men dismounted chrome motorcycles.
Shimmering skull rings covered their fingers.
Chains of metal chattered about their necks.
Coarse multi-colored beards matched their long scragglely tresses of hair.
Sweaty blue headbands across their foreheads.
Body piercing in every-imaginable place.
And tattoos wherever their skin used to be.
A worn, black leather jacket -- silver spikes on the cuffs.
More skulls, patched onto a faded levis jacket
Fraid where the sleeves were missing -- exposing a thick burly arm.
Torn, ripped jeans -- holes in every inappropriate spot.
A bandana caked with grease and road dust tied on one leg. Scarlet red.
One held a briefcase shackled to his large wrist.
The other scopes the scene.
A two-edged blade the length of my arm strapped to his side.
Their large, scuffed boots thudded against the pavement as they made their way passed our locked van,
Through the reception of the motel, to the desk where a man stood unaware with his back facing them -- DAD!
We watched in suspense from peep-holes the steamed windows of the van outside...
"Your room number is on the key," whispered the lady as she leaned toward my dad and slipped him the room key.

(Needless to say, we booked a Hilton for the ride home.) *wink*

by: mlejane
copyright 1998