Lucky Room Seven

She is on the run.

A Bonnie despicably afraid of her Clyde.

The backdrop of the departing sun

and the unease of the cool wind,

tickling her neck,

a constant shadow of regret

haunting her dreams

and becoming a nightmare made flesh.

Lucky number seven,

the seventh day of the seventh month

of the year two-thousand seven–

Ring, ring!

“Room for one, please.”

Lucky Room Seven.

Her personal haven

as she runs from the law.

Her personal prison

as she stares at the double-locked door

with a brass doorknob

and a very tempting


The air is stale,

a clinical perfume,

a miasma of hurried movements

and bleach, with an undertone

of fetid passion and–

Ring, ring!

“Ms. Carlisle, your husband is here,

is it not queer?

A lady without a ring,

what kind of trouble will this bring?

Sir, you cannot–”

Bam, bam!

Unease is a bitter and constant friend and

her personal companion

when she is on the road.

it anchors her to this world–

her pinch back to reality

as she lives the criminally-famed lifestyle

without the whores, booze, and money.

An empty suitcase

filled with empty wrappers

and a vial of hemlock,

she stares at the double-locked door,

trigger fingers itchy.

Dammit Claire! Open up!

The double-lock held on tight,

and gave her enough time

to pop the lid off,

and swallow the elixir of passionate death.

Feet wobbling and eyes hazy,

she walks to the bathroom,

Staring at her reflection with a winsome smile.

Pushing her bangs off her forehead

and admiring her aquamarine eyes,

fatigue stark against her pasty skin.

Open up, Ms. Carlisle!

She laughs a broken laugh

and succumbs to the poisons’

seductive song.

The fateful double-lock

finally gives in as the police barge in

guns out and metal cuffs clanking.

“Ms. Carlisle?”

“Where is she?”

A murder mystery they wonder,

as they see blood on the floor,

a perfectly unblemished trail

of dried drops of blood

that leads straight to the bathroom,

the artificial lights,

ugly and cheap.

                                                “Oh, my God–!”

“Sir, please step back–”

“She is my wife–!”

They find lovely Mrs. Carlisle

dead on the floor,

economical clothes clean and pristine,

nose dripping blood,

and a chilling smile

that even the hardest of men,

take a step back,

as a witnesses

a stunning death.


“We need an ambulance

At Lucky’s motel, Room Seven…”

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