The sign blares “NO VACANCY” like a death sentence, Red letters bleeding into the dusk, A beacon for the lost and those who pretend to be found. The parking lot sprawls out like a crime scene, Snow-dusted cars lined up like forgotten corpses— Each one a story nobody asked to hear. Frost clings to the windshield of a blue Cadillac, Its engine silent, its shadow long, And somewhere beyond the horizon, The sky bruises purple and orange, As if the sun gave up halfway through the job. The air hums with static and spent prayers, Wasted on a motel that hasn’t seen warmth in decades. Out here, hope is a broken taillight, And the only vacancy left Is in the eyes of those who never checked out.