Motel Life

I'm painting my nails a violent red,
waiting for Harry to come cursing
through the door, shirt
out, hair greasy,
mouth snarling like a beat up Cadillac.

I'm blowing on my fingers,
listening for the sound
of his key in the lock before he lurches in,
tosses his jacket, stalks the refrigerator
for the last dregs of milk.

Only, truth is, I don't know any Americans,
least, none with eyes that glint like Harry's.
And I'm not painting my nails in a neon room -
I'm at my computer in England, watching numbers
stagger across the screen like drunken cats

Waiting for something to happen.

Back in that motel room, things are kicking off.
Harry's turned psycho; lost his memory.
He's tearing up dollar bills by the bathroom door.
His eyes look like they've been wired
to the walls' many loose electrical sockets.

Here on the bed, feet curled beneath me,
nipples poking out from under my vest,
all pink and hard like cats' noses,
I remember my pledge:
Time to split this joint, blow this town; make for the border.

That'd be all well and good
if I knew where the border was,
or indeed
which country
I was meant to be living in.