The Sandman
By Tim Applegate

At the Sandman motel six miles west of Boise
I finish twelve rooms in six hours, a hundred
and ten by the end of the week, restoring
the natural wood trim banding laminate

dressers, the night stands and mirror frames, the
matching oak armchairs I sit in at night
with a glass of chilled whiskey
and the poems of Philip Levine.

In the upper suites I smile at the Mexican
housekeepers and point toward the glistening
wood and say wet, say sticky.

By the end of the job
the long-haul truckers
who stay at the Sandman year round
seem to consider me one of their own.
Early evenings we drink coffee in the breakfast room

and swap stories of the road. When a powder of new snow
dusts the dark panes of the windows
they ask what kind of chains I carry, and what
day I'll be driving home. And at dawn

they're back, sipping from steamed mugs
or glancing at the sports page
or simply staring out the windows

at the strip of black road
just now appearing, as it does every
morning, in the first swarm of light.