at the rancho ninety nine motel

there was a warning

written on a paperplate:

beware! rattlesnake seen

on frontage road sixty eight.

it was underneath

the cracked naugahyde

seat cushions of a couch

left on the curb outside

the rancho ninety-nine motel.

the big snake was coiled up

on the dimes and nickels

left behind by sam,

the regional sales rep

for mega-bio-petro-

pharma-globa-ceuticals, inc.

the coins fell out of his pockets

while he was sleeping off

his greasy evening freaking

with tammi, a local gun dealer's 

meth-addicted wife, who

traded tricks for drugs

as soon as he was

snoozing and snoring,

tammi snickered

-so long sam, you slug,

and smothered him

with a motel towel

drenched in the ether

she had scored the night before

and stole his black corvette.

they didn't find him for a week.

couldn't erase the reek,

even with a quart of

mega-bio-petro-pharma-

globa-ceuticals-all-purpose

deodorizer/moisturizer/

babyformula/artificial sweetener.

so the couch was hauled out

to the curb. where it attracted

a family of mice. quite a snack,

for a big fat western diamondback.

the six-foot rattler bit

the county health inspector

when he stopped by the motel

to pick up his monthly bite.

not exactly the kind

he had in mind.

so mister grayson grayman,

rancho ninety-nine motel manager,

quickly penned a sign on a paper plate

from the breakfast lounge

and frisbeed it onto the couch.

the rattlesnake was gone by then,

had slithered up the street

to digest the dozen mice he'd eaten

and found a cozy spot under the seat

of a black corvette previously owned

by a certain regional sales rep,

recently deceased.