Shameful

In a rotting motel room, he awakens, his face pressed into the spine of a woman he’s known for just a few hours
Empty bottles of cheap liquor camouflage a ratty red carpet that has been crushed by years of heavy traffic 
A dullish, patterned wallpaper, curls up above the floor heater, revealing a flat painted wall with countless scuff marks 
The woman, more than ten years his elder, snores soundly on a torn mattress that’s covered with nauseating yellow stains
Her tired, naked body only partially hidden by a thin, bug-infested cloth disguised as a blanket
Heavy red lipstick, black mascara, and jade eyeliner used to hide her age are smeared across her face and pillow 
Her pale white frame, coated with bad tattoos and lined with countless stretch marks, is anything but desirable
He is revolted by the number of potential risks he has exposed himself to just to reach a high
He shakes his head shamefully…this is the monster he has become, a far cry from the man he was raised to be

In the sorriest excuse for a motel room he’s ever seen, miles away from anything that feels familiar, he plans his escape 
Lacking any desire to meet her, sober eye to sober eye, in the new morning’s light 
Using just the faint exterior street lamp that peers through bent shades, he familiarizes himself with his surroundings 
Shifting his weight ever so slightly, the last thing he wants to do is to wake up this woman by his side
A sharp pain in his lower back, a result from a night of prodding by a mattress laden with springs, temporarily halts him
He opens the blinds just enough for a soft glow to fill the room, allowing him to rummage around for his clothes
His blue jeans, reeking of smoke, are brought to a nearby desk chair where he slides into them as silently as he can
He lifts his crumbled t-shirt over his head and tries unsuccessfully to iron it down with the palms of his hands
He shakes his head shamefully…this is the monster he has become, a far cry from the man he was raised to be

In a dingy motel, in a spot he never imagined he would ever be, he tiptoes onto a sidewalk littered with cigarette butts
His car double-parked, half of his front bumper crushed deeply into a high curb, a mere three feet from the room door
An empty bottle of whiskey, wedged between the door and driver’s seat, falls onto the gravel as he opens the car door
He drops the bottle into a nearby trash can, listening to it clank but not break as it collides with other empty bottles
Beneath a dimly lit Plexiglas roadside sign with the “T” and “E” in the word MOTEL burnt out, he sees a two lane road
Though the sun won’t begin its ascent for another two hours, there is a need to put this night behind him without delay
He scours his car for a road map, discouraged only slightly when his hands come up bare
He wonders not where he is, but rather how he arrived, knowing quite well he never should have been behind the wheel 
He shakes his head shamefully…this is the monster he has become, a far cry from the man he was raised to be

In a rundown motel parking lot, in a location that he’ll never visit again, his car kicks up loose gravel as it peels away
He does his best to recall his previous night’s actions, but the sequence of events is foggy at best
Soon his head begins to spin wildly and, knowing what is about to happen, he slows his vehicle down 
He pulls his car over to the side of the road, inhaling and exhaling deeply as he does so, for he knows what will come next
He climbs over the passenger seat, jerks the door open and vomits a thick, milky substance onto the muddy shoulder
It is a ritual that is not all that new for a man who knowingly consumes much more alcohol than his body can take
He scans his car for a bottle of water or anything that can quench his maddening thirst, but he comes up empty
He adjusts his rearview mirror, pausing briefly before tracing his chin, his unrecognizable face does, in fact, belong to him
He shakes his head shamefully…this is the monster he has become, a far cry from the man he was raised to be

I wrote this poem about avoiding the extremes of emotions. I felt that if you kept your emotions within a more narrow range and not allow your hopes to get too high, then maybe you won't be as devastated when things started to go bad. It's obviously not that simple, but it has meaning in the sense that life can be bearable if the lows can become manageable. A glass vase is less likely to break if it falls a small distance than it falls from a much higher elevation. This is sort of saying the same thing. If you don't want the glass vase to break, then don't put it higher on the shelf just because it has the potential to be more noticeable and more appreciated.

Written in 2012

Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser