"Motels made of Feathers" NaPoWriMo #5

A perfect line is drawn
between fine edges with details.
High-rise images are six inch heels
where kittens don’t venture
without boas wrapping around them tightly.
It’s a pump that sucks life from you
as it returns fetid, rancid or abused air.
Spikes lay at your bedpost,
fans are scattered all about
florets burrow holes in your chest cavity,
soaking up time, furnishing blood through crude canals.

I am watching from a distant corner
where feather-foil lays on stilettos,
crushed underfoot and worn into the carpet
with cigarette burns left behind,
like the trash strewn about in your life.
They have taken out all air conditioning units, 
replacing them with old dusty golden coins
to be deposited at a local arcade resting easy …
no-one will ever win a trophy.

Process notes:

Write about feathers and stilettos (but no person can be wearing them).

Before moving South of the Border, I thought that there was no difference between a motel and a hotel, except the latter being fancier and more expensive. So when we stopped to spend the night at a motel in the northern part of Mexico, my husband explained the difference. I am sure the proprietor was grateful for our money, generally the rooms are rented by the hour. This poem came to fruition from that experience, the room though clean and tidy, it had an underlying film that existed, unexplainable, it was simply there.