Rainy Night in Kokomo
By Don Iannone

From my stale-smelling hotel room window,
I watch the warm August rain pound Kokomo,
like a unbeaten prizefighter
pummeling the neighborhood sissy.
I hate the rain,
sometimes even more than raw oysters--
slippery disgusting bastards that they are.
Almost 9 PM and still light.
No moon or stars tonight.
Just heavy clouds pissing on K-Mart shoppers
madly dashing to their beater cars.
Have you ever really studied the carpet in a hotel room?
Not exactly the Marrakech Express.
All those grimy toe jams--
the sort you wiped on your younger sister
and made her cry when you were kids.
This place is pretty clean,
compared to some places I've spent the night.
I remember discovering dust balls
the size of African Bush elephants
under my bed in a flea bag hotel in Erie
not too long ago.
There's no privacy in a place like this.
The poor SOB next door
should either lay off the bean dip
or save his cherry bombs for July 4th.
No need for a wake-up call in this joint.