Greg Bachar

Conduit

Noise of your coming arrival,
Victory,
ticker tape,
parade of realized dreams.

Sometimes a daisy chain
hung on the doorknob
of a vacant motel room
attracts the laughter
of knowing hyenas.
They bring buckets of ice,
bibles, and road maps
to mark your lover's trail.

You push a button. 
A red light says:
She is here, or: She is there,
or: She will be where you are,
sooner than later,
sooner than even now.

There's a knock on the motel door.
It's her, she knows you,
there's no need for words:
you have a whole roll of quarters
for the vibrating bed.

Greg Bachar lives in Seattle, Washington. See his other poems this issue: A Chime For His Ache and Be An Otter.

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