The Whispering Pines Motel

Decades ago, when we were young,
and you were interviewing for a job,
we found ourselves seeking
an overnight stay between
our six-floor walkup in the Bronx
and the Delaware shore.

The motel crouched in a stand of pines
wearing its half-lit neon sign
like the crooked crown of banished royalty.
I doubt a lover’s tryst ever happened here.
We registered at the desk with a clerk
exhausted as we.

The arbor moved in to woo us,
its shadows a fragrant embrace.
We unpacked, laying our pajamas
on the worn chenille bedspreads.
We wondered where to order pizza.

The pines whispered to each other:
Who are the strange couple
that wandered in from the city
to breathe the deep sap-scented air,
who gazed in awe at cones and needles
playing among the feathered spines
of evergreens?

The pines have no need to labor
for their daily bread. They will outlast
us all—the motel, the weary clerk,
the blinking sign, and strangers like us
needing a bed in the darkening night.