By: Alan Ford

A hotel lobby
inhabited by solitude
impersonal arrivals, nameless departures
a clock stops as time passes

no one communicates
just unsigned promises,
broken words no one speaks
only spirits listen

woman in a window
room unfurnished by love
unrequited and unrestored
as blinds of life unroll

dead living cities
of un-walked sidewalks,
posthumous jolts to
the surface of life

gas station route 6
a landmark unredeemed by distance
a voyage into history
but where and whose?