Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I’m in a motel room.
It’s between somewhere and
somewhere, I’m not sure.
The room is standard American
motel: picture window with
drapes, dresser with mirror,
bed night stand with lamp,
TV, chair, writing table;
bathroom: basin, toilet, tub
with shower, towels on shelf.
The walls are all a vague
white. It’s evening. Cars
pass on the road outside.
I have a plastic cup of
convenience store coffee on
the writing table and I sit
before it, a blank sheet of
paper in front of me with a
ballpoint pen beside it.
I’m trying to remember the
name of the motel and its
location. I want to write it
at the top of the page and
then write a poem about
why I’m there and what I’m
going to do next. But nothing
comes to me. I have the TV
on but have left the sound
off. Two figures are struggling
on the bank of a river,
struggling soundlessly as
though all their energy were
taken up with the battle.
The tube goes blank and a
commercial comes on, cartoon
animals dancing and talking.
I turn back to the blank
page, deep in my unknownness,
a stranger in a motel room
between somewhere and some-
where. The night comes
slowly as though reluctant
to intrude. Car lights flash
across the window. From the
room next to me comes a
muffled sound--a woman’s voice
laughing or crying or screaming.
It stops abruptly. I rise
and look around me, examining
each item in the room, studying
everything carefully as though
seeking a clue. Then I sit
down again and sip my coffee
while the night grows.