If you 

have never had

to pretend to sleep

in a bed-bug 

infested

motel room

for fifty dollars a night 

in the middle of 

The United States 

with crusty old blood stains 

halted in mid-drip 

down the walls

unidentified substances 

stuck

on the not-so-white sheets 

ashtrays on the bedside tables

which have not been emptied in years

A Bible in the drawer

its binding torn

and pages burnt 

alarm clocks blinking 1:57

with a man working in the lobby

wearing suspenders 

and a filthy beard

whom you were

almost certain

would try to kill you 

and your lover

at some point 

before the morning 

then you, my friend

have not really 

lived.