By Kerri Haerinck
After mom kicks me out,
I have nowhere else to go.
The lights of the motel sign flicker.
Hours pass as I lay on the spring mattress.
Sniffing the stale air.
I notice a tear in the painting above the bed.
I want to pick at it.
My hand fiddles with the leftover change in my pocket.
I can’t even buy a soda.
Maybe I could buy a condom for the moaners next door.
They don’t realize how thin these walls are,
like two sides of a paperclip.
I’m the underside.