Hotel Room At Exit 37
By John R. Greenwood
The variation of engine sounds captures my attention as I sit at the half open window in Room 204 at the end of Exit 37.
Souped up Honda Civics play pretend as the throaty four-cylinder's rpm's reach a boiling point entering the interstate.
A mud-caked logging truck, loaded high with pulp the size of a Buick, grumbles to an abrupt stop as the light turns red and causes a change of yellow light plans.
Giant men with scrubby beards and shiny new Ford 150's stomp the peddle to the floor pushing a twenty dollar bill into the carburetor and forcing it out the Pep Boy's after-market tailpipe.
Dirty haired girls with their arms out the window flick their cigarettes into the air-the red glow of ashes spraying across the blacktop.
A boisterous Harley with all the fixin's sings in the distance-- insisting everyone in Clinton County pay attention.
Grandma and grandpa ooze onto #87 South--with any luck they'll reach Florida by fall.
I take another sip of coffee and put my feet on the window sill.
A slicked up red Mustang leaves the light like he has someplace to be.
My head bobs, the noise isn't noise it's sleeping pills wrapped in horsepower.
I push off my untied shoes with my toes.
I'm at peace.
My heart and my feet breathe a sigh of relief.