The Voice of the Place
Each shadow on the wall is a nightmare on the loose.
How horrible it can be: the imagination.
Heart pounding, one wakes, but wakes to what?
There are faces forgotten in hotel rooms.
The phone rings and rings and rings and no one is here.
The Check-In
The light reaches only a foot across the patterned carpet.
The beds are newly made, dressed formally, in crisp white sheets.
The parking lot is shimmering, melting in the black sun.
No one is on duty in the bistro.
Six, maybe seven, lizards dash off.
A man sits, distracted, pen in hand.
The heat is rising, not quite imperceptibly.
One thinks: no one wants to hear these thoughts flickering away.
How best to describe the pattern on this carpet?
Is that a bird trapped in the air conditioner?
Where can one get a cup of coffee in this place?
The pen lies—it lies only inches away.
Exhaustion creeps over one: it’s not even 1p.m.
In the scale of things today: one inch equals thirty-five miles.
The parrot in its cage, feathered like an Aztec priest.
The touch of a finger on the desk bell.
The Voice of the Place
The air conditioner can do nothing for this air.
Locked, the drawer where the broken words are kept.
The manatee lay in the bathtub stabbed a hundred times.
What the staff finds when a guest departs hardens a soul.
A face forms in the tangled murk of a forest painting.
The Pick-Up
On the bar, a gin-and-tonic sits, sweating with fear.
A woman crosses her legs, studies her toenails.
Four pill bottles lined up on the bathroom countertop.
Describe it or not: the pattern in a stranger’s sportscoat?
One clears one’s throat as if to start again—but doesn’t.
A tap on the shoulder: it’s a message for someone else.
On the tv screen, people in smoke, running for cover.
Fingers twist a swizzle stick into various letter shapes.
Take out cell phone, pretend to consult, put away again.
Is one being watched or not and how does one know?
A large man takes the next barstool, orders, turns, smiles, and says…
Two things difficult to gauge: how drunk one is, how desperate.
Footsteps running down the empty hall: then running back again.
In the dark, under the sheets, it doesn’t feel like a penis.
The hotel manager stands watch among the potted plants.
A new working title: “Semiotics for Victims.”
The Voice of the Place
The laughter in the hallway isn’t laughter at all.
In the dark, in the corner, something squeals in pain and protest.
Forgive whatever has trespassed here.
There is life in the small jars pushed to the back of the closet.
When the lights are out, there are small sharp teeth everywhere.
Ablution
The stated goal: to make one’s stay “a complete success.”
Then there’s the shape of drops splashed on the sink counter.
One is promised that it—whatever “it” is—will be made right.
The intensity of bathroom light reveals the true damage.
Just call the front desk if you forgot…
A used towel crumpled against the bathtub like a child.
Something rusty dissolving in the white throat of the toilet.
Does it matter how many squares comprise the tile floor?
Is that a bruise or a birthmark and is there a difference?
Toothpaste, a comb, the will to go on—what has one forgotten?
It’s just not true that everything can be made right.
One zips up the bag; then one unzips it again.
Is there time before the housekeeper comes?
On the side of the bed one sits, slumped, touching the tender spot.
The Voice of the Place
The pen says, tap, tap, tap.
There are no survivors: that is the only certainty.
Hunger is easily invented but not satisfaction.
The purpose of the experiment has been forgotten.
The sun, hours in the coming up, does not come up at all.
On Hotel Stationary
To Whom it May Concern (if it concerns anyone at all):
The mornings, with a sweet roll and coffee, are bearable.
One’s eyes are opened by each table’s bright yellow flower.
One writes these words in the blue shadow of one’s
own hand.
own hand.
A quick calculation: how much can one lose and still go on?
Those Lost: a list of names follows this underlined heading.
A bird, blue as acetylene: it’s gone before it’s there.
Tomorrow is like a letter that may or may not come.
Sometimes love means letting go: of a dream, of a
person, of a life.
person, of a life.
“One more cup of coffee,” one tells oneself, but then what?
Check-out time at noon, which is really very generous.
The Voice of the Place
The steel doors slide back, no one exits this floor.
There are no “guests” among the uninvited.
The cart piled with used linens, half-eaten meals.
In the distance, one catches the sound of a vacuum.
The elevator announces its sadness with a bell.
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