When I Make It Home At Night

Buzz of an electric bug killer
outside the motel room. Dead
dropping out of the air. I can
hear their freefall after the sizzle.

Tomorrow, when people check out,
the maid empties the metal cage.
A grey cloud of wings and legs
tumbles into a cardboard box.

The butter on my body hairs salty
and sweet after last nights feast.
I run along the rail of the staircase,
unseen. In the hall is a fuchsia

carpet, the last dangerous crossing
before I reach the crack I call a home.