Terrace Motel D5 (A Poem)

By Skylar L. Richardson

Cheap carpet, caked with years of grime,

thrown across the cement floor like a shop rag,

stretched to the stained walls stacked high

with ordinary and torn boxes—resembling a mini

storage. Outside these walls, the police investigate yet

another stabbing. (Some movies are based on reality).

The old hood is across the street – which supposedly

separated old from new.

My mother, brother, two sisters and I slept, ate

and fought in that cube for more than three years.

The lights didn’t always work. The plumbing leaked

and the single door lock did not always lock. Harry never

spent money to have things fixed properly—It was the only

place Social Security and Welfare paid for. We slept

because we were tired and ate because we were hungry.