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.