for the Ramada, a Holiday
Inn or, if I’m feeling fancy,
the Hilton. With turndown
service. Sometimes, it’s a Bed
& Breakfast, where I’d sip
coffee on the porch, turn
pages, and talk to no one
about nothing. But even that
feels too intimate. I want empty
drawers, my things heaped
in a suitcase. A room for me
to leave dirty, crumpled towels
on tile, shoes kicked into the blue
bordering the room. I’d come back
each night to tightly tucked linens,
a lamp left on, little boxes of soap,
fresh—no finger dents, no fossilized
hair. All this magic performed
by someone I don’t have to see,
to thank, their imprint on my life
as permanent as the tracks the vacuum
leaves in the diamond patterned plush.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 13.