Drying Out at the Driftwood Motel

After losing everything: wife and kids, job, house, car, cat--

not to mention--his mind, from all the alcohol,

he washes up onto an island made out of mattress.

The sky is the ceiling. The ocean is the ugly carpet

which hasn't been cleaned for centuries,

bearing the stains of those who tried to swim across it,

and failed, drowning before ever reaching the door.

He scoops up the sand, burying himself alive

under the blankets. But he will probably live forever, he tells himself.

The sun is the light bulb beating down on him.

He is too tired and weak to turn it off.

God is the housekeeper, who he's never met,

who continues to make his bed each time he leaves.

Sleep is heaven. Reality is hell.