Tom Jardine
THE GREEN LIGHT
Goodnight, little green light on my hotel wall,
cool modern thermostat or fancy fire alarm,
goodnight, whatever you are,
watchful friend or intergalactic star.
Since I am a professional know-it-all,
I know you keep me from harm,
a guardian angel with artificial sight,
purposeful, vigilant, and cleverly right.
I am a weary traveler on deathly highways,
tired of weird waiters and greasy food.
I’m numb from banging on boxed-in brains
and affected liberals in aesthetic domains.
I yearn for crickets and dusty-road byways
unknown to urban bellhops bred to be rude.
I appreciate ditches that catch speed fiends
and aggressive drivers and stupid drunk teens.
I can’t stand the musty towels and carpets,
I don’t like motel art and strangers mumbling things,
or idiots thumping or possibly murderous groans.
I hate these complicated one hundred button telephones.
Am I a butterfly dangling over modern-day tar pits?
All I want is quality time that lifts and sings.
This is not good, being alone; I might slip and fall.
Me, the great missing nobody, a dead Neanderthal.
I miss my home, my private universe,
where everything is comfy the way I like it.
Mushy hotel mattresses kick my back in stuffy rooms
where filthy filters clog my lungs like mummy tombs.
The closed windows make everything worse;
the next trip I’ll just buy a helmet and bike it.
But thank you and goodnight, little green light;
I appreciate equal friends, gentle and bright.
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