Just when I think I’m a seasoned traveler
I meet Monique, a turquoise-laden motel clerk in western Wyoming
Who thinks I’m out of line when after checking in I complain
That someone wearing blue lipstick and plenty of dusty makeup
Has already been sleeping in my bed.
“I’m all alone here,” she says. “You’ll just have to turn
The pillow over if it bothers you that much.”
Just when I think I’m tragically short
My tall friends start complaining about migraines, aching backs,
Hollow bones, doorways, small print, short beds, sunsets.
Their blood travels twice as far as mine,
They have twice as far to fall,
More stuff to shake, dangle, rub and sag.
They are sad songs when they walk.
Just when I’m about to become a column of confusion,
A man in a green stocking cap asks me:
“Tell me who I am, would you?”
“You’re Melvin Liscomb,” I say.
“So I am, so I am. Melvin Liscomb.
I’ve always hated that sonofabitch.”
Gordon Mennenga
Gordon W. Mennenga lives in Iowa City, Iowa. His work has been featured on NPR and published in the Bellingham Review, Necessary Fiction, Hamilton Stone Review, and South 85. Gordon is finishing a book of poems about various forms of trouble. He often teaches in the Iowa Summer Writing Festival