I was in the historic motel, room thirty, the room
of bells. It was snowing, I was old,
nor could I find a bib for my persistent chiclet gum
drip: Fooey!, sha-blast, out into the teeny hard penis cold

wearing Paw's foam moon boots, eating reduced fat
coffee cake, looking for a particular hot plump over-stupid woman, and my keys.
(October snow: blinding pumpkins, filling pumpkins, balling pumpkins.) Rat
prints chased black rats into triangular garage holes. Trees:

got in my way. The pumpkins' hard buns are henning circular grass spots,
I presumed, a nice thought, which left me momentarily warm,
and missing my smoky room: room thirty: an historic room of bells. I got
the complimentary flight wine out of my left coat pocket and drank it dry;

        there was a little rum
in my right coat pocket and I drank it dry, too.
It's lonely nosing slush humps, the longest icicles hum, which is to say
        Miss loose bones, you're not pretty, but god, I do miss you.