Albany, Thursday Night

​

 It is a cheap motel
just off the highway,
across from the mall
now almost empty of cars,
a room not much bigger
than a bed, a desk and
a small nightstand.
The diet cola is sweating
despite the breeze
of the air conditioner,
the television flickers.
I have left a wake up call
hoping I arise before
the jangle of the phone
knowing I will not.
Corso lies on the New York Times
Sunday crossword
neither bringing sleep.
The deli is dark, pastrami
and tongue sleeping in the cooler
the rye awaiting morning,
but I hear the cars
rushing down the highway
while Letterman sleeps fitfully
somewhere in Connecticut.