Sun burns into the scalp, and I
realize I’ve forgotten
my hat – a brown straw hat, picked up
for three dollars in Nuevo Laredo – made just
for this sort of burning, Tex–Mex sun. Now,
a cool wind glides in from the west,
carries the scent of onion rings
or fried dough, from the town
center, beyond the trees. See the patterns
as the silent wind brushes
the surface of the lake? Just allow the cool wind
to wash past, over the water. It continues
through the chain–link fence
on the other side, through the Snickers wrappers
and the hemlock branches. The needles tremble
on their stems, as particles of sand swirl
from the surface of the black top. Still,
it glides between the legs
of the vacancy sign, over a silver SUV,
lifting three dried leaves up
between the chipped white balusters of the railing
where a man in a red tie and blue–striped shirt
pounds on the faded yellow door
of room 212. Can you hear the tinkle
of the Price Is Right, spilling
through the cracked window? A woman
in a white robe ignores the pounding
on the door, ignores the drone
of the Showcase Showdown, even
the sinking feeling in the pit
of her abdomen, as she focuses all her attention
on the nail brush in her right hand. Her toes
stretched apart by synthetic cotton cylinders,
red paint glides silently across
the thick cartilage, like a breeze across the surface
of a silent lake. Can you smell the paint,
acrid and strong? Or is it the onion rings,
in the nostrils of the man who
has forgotten his hat. And perhaps,
I am that man. Perhaps, I only just left the woman
at the motel, narrowly escaping
the wrath of the husband now pounding on the door.
Or perhaps, I am the husband, desperately
pounding, as the world slips away. Or
am I just some random bystander, with no particular
connection to the unfolding drama? And
isn’t that the axis of the difficulty? We just don’t know,
confused by the shifting wind
of our own narrative. What can I trust? The door
is locked, and the cool breeze
arrives with the faint smell of onion rings.