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Neon Signs of America
by Amber Leffler

Neon signs of America,
I love you more than Elvis
beaming well-fed
from the Mystery Land
of Memphis.

More, even than the after-wafts
of turquoise pool chlorine,
rising wavelike
from the bleachy snap
of hotel sheets.

Neon signs of America,
how can I explain—

your flourescents
that beam daily transmissions
from anonymous hotels
across the wilderness
of strip-malls,

badland of deserted diners
where saguaros stand
in rooted effigy

are holier, even,
than those pop machines
I worshipped,
teenaged and on acid,
bowing to the glow of cola
on my hometown streets?

I pray your lights stay true
as Motel-6 commercials,
reliable as rest-stops
that nail, across the nation,
the snake-trail highways
into a new religion
of electric power.

Editor's Note:
Amber also writes and publishes
under the pseudonym "Starlite Motel."


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