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Reduced Sentence or Snagglepuss Ponders His Own Mortality

 

This motel must belong to Betsy.

It must be Murgatroyd’s, even.

There’s no bible in my nightstand—

what a chintzy little outfit!

But look at all the angels

in the pool tonight—seraphim

and cherubim treading water

under the moon, already.

What wickedness this way comes,

pray tell?  What’s going on,

that is?  I should’ve shelled out

the extra two bits for more

accommodating accommodations.

No mints under the pillow.

No pillow, even.  They lock the gate

at 1 AM.  Exit, no exit.  I should’ve

saved up for that South Seas cruise.

Those sirens are my cues—

one great escape coming up.

One fraidy cat checking out.




Rob MacDonald