Poem by Tom Chandler

To the woman at the Red Edge Motel

Some tourist of love
in his cheap suit of longing
will elbow the bar
in the lounge of no last names,
dip his cuff accidentally
in your seven & seven
and ask you to dance
to the faint moan of muzak,
perfume your earrings
with breath mints and gin
as the lights grow yet dimmer
as his hand on the switch
hovers inches away
from the slick red edge
of your hungover heart
with its faded no vacancy sign.

--Tom Chandler


And for exciting poet news: Garrison Keillor is going to read some of Robin Merrill's poems on The Writers Almanac on Wednesday November 23rd and Sunday the 27th!