i picture this bald creep,
William B. Orr, Esq.,
on his annual trip 
to Secrets Hideaway Resort & Spa-Kissimmee 

is tucked off Florida Highway 192,
a 22-minute drive down 
a fevered, Popeye-d stretch 
to the Star Motel,
which the owner abandoned 
to the residents
at the beginning 
of the pandemic,
fleeing to suburban Atlanta
and leaving $9,000 
in unpaid electric bills 

the Star Motel is 
a palm-treed
hell right here on earth;
the residents have 
to pool their resources 
to keep the power on 
or else the rooms 
get stifling 
and people get testy
and the guns start 
coming out

they throw 
the crumbs of their 
stimulus checks 
into a pile 
by the stagnant 
pool hole 
and send the pile 
to the power company
and get the power back on 
for a few days 

but then it 
goes off again;
they can’t pay 
the overdue bills 
and the utility guys 
come and cut the lines
while the residents,
thwacking across 
the parking lot 
in tissue-thin flip flops,
upper arms 
spilling out of tank tops,
plead with them 
not to make 
the final cut

while in Kissimmee,
a drunk William B. Orr, Esq. 
drives past the Star Motel
in his leased Lexus,
and swerves to avoid
hitting Rose from Room 207,
who is crossing the highway 
for her shift at Taco Bell

Rose thinks she might 
go to college, 
but who is she kidding?
her last $40 in savings 
went into the futile power pile, 
while Keith in Room 101
paid nothing;
he instead spent his check 
on Svedka and Percocet 
and wings from T.G.I. Friday’s 

Secrets has mirrors 
on the ceilings 
and a clothing-optional 
outdoor swimming pool 
and i imagine 
that William likes to meet 
big-titted Krystal 
there for a long weekend 
and watch her 
sagging and oiled breasts
rise and fall as she naps 
naked on a lounge chair 
next to the pool

Secrets is no Ritz 
but it’s blessedly far 
from Suite F-12 
in the business park
off U.S. 1 North,
where his squat office 
overlooks a perpetual 
construction site

William leaves work at 5:07
and slides into his NuLuxe 
High-Quality Synthetic Leather Material 
driver’s seat,
sweat gathered 
in the armpits 
of his white-collared 
blue shirt

this fucking client
who hasn’t paid yet
keeps badgering William 
to finish his 
divorce settlement,
which was mostly drafted 
by this guy’s wife’s attorney,
leaving William crumbs 
to bill for

as he pulls out of his parking spot,
William wonders 
fleetingly about 
this guy’s wife’s tits;
she’s in her 20s 
according to his 
Google searches,
so they’re probably perkier
than Krystal’s,
but how big?

the only thing this
client has of value 
is his retirement savings,
and William tried to liven up
the proceedings a little
by juicing the guy
for some billable hours,
telling him
his wife might go after
his 401(k)

but this spineless husband
doesn’t want to fight
for anything, 
instead telling William,
in reference to me,
the wife he left,
“i trust her”

William, who knew my life
was about to end before i did,
passes the suite
around the corner,
a rival practice 
with a stupid tagline
printed on its glass door —
Divorce Done Right —
as i sit in my idling car,
watching from 100 feet away,
wondering why i’m imagining
William imagining me,