William Littlejohn-Oram

Neon Moon with Cicadas

Another crane fly died outside,
lured to the motel’s neon blue,

the sound momentarily popping
over that of the cicada’s buckling ribs.

I lie sprawled
over the cheap wooden chairs

set by the open window
facing the street corner.

Across the intersection, the restaurant’s
electric beer signs out front

only flicker now, half-hearted in their job.
The stone chapel in the graveyard stood

until expansion of the grounds. Its steeple
had fallen off anyway and its paint peeled.

Wallpaper, too, begins to peel away
near the ceiling around the motel room.

The desert flowers by the television set
have wilted down onto the coffee pot.

The ceiling’s dark stain has grown.
I decide that I too will grow old here.

My skin aged, speckled and grey,
I will memorize the backs of my hands,

the wrinkles, the scabs, how it folds
or tears, soft like leather,

while through the open windows will come
songs of evening cicadas and the beating

of the broken traffic light, blinking red.

________________________________________________________________________________________

William Littlejohn-Oram earned a degree in Fiction from the University of Houston and a Master’s in Poetry from Texas Tech University. He is currently found in Fort Worth, TX wearing brightly colored shoes. His work has appeared with or is forthcoming with EcoTheo, Muzzle Magazine, The Shore, The Windhover and others.