A Poem for Bob Bloch's Hideous Progenies...

Games Night at the Bates Motelby Richard Gavin

In the end

they're only little games we play.

Check into a one-room cell
& for a night or two
call it Home-Sweet-Home

undergarments tucked in foreign drawers
passions spelled out on strange beds
intoxication chilled in a little plastic pail of complimentary ice.

Sometimes we may even falsely register
as Mr. Smith or Ms. Doe, or as Marie Samuels.
Thin white lies,
little games
to rejuvenate the puppet-cord routine
of punch-clocks and 9am boardroom conclaves.