The Stardust

The Stardust is one of many groady motels along the highway
I wonder if that’s the name of the stripper that comes with the bed
I have to tell myself jokes like this to stay awake

Sign says: safety zone—shouldn’t they
all be? Another warns: speed limit strictly enforced by aircraft
I never saw any—perhaps the pilots were occupied at the Stardust, eh?

Billboard entices dirty truckers to wash off their filth in a free shower. Café’ Risqué
conjures up a lot of promiscuous thoughts and images—at
least the longevity gotten out of this oddity helps me stay awake

“Visit South of the Boarder!” at least twenty colorful billboards rave
It looks like a run down theme park with a high likelihood for sighting ghosts
So tired I start to twitch, but the motels turn me and my dog away

afraid he might pee on their dingy carpet and cum stained duvets
Mazda ahead of me says “LTS RLL” guess I shouldn’t
argue. I slap my face and pound five hour’s and espresso to stay awake

Beautiful! High quality! Easy care! High fashion! Wigs! Wigs! Wigs! Exit 40
The “yoga place that feels like home” looks like a mosque. There’s another adult
store—I wonder if my fellow travellers ever stop by before a sleazy motel stay
My horror at the endless possibilities of sweaty rendezvous keeps me wide-awake


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