Saturday, September 18, 2010

Hotel #8


Pink, the smell of old men's hair.
Something hidden ticks in our bath-

room; the green drapes wither
like petals and light creeps in.

Ice coats the flags, the lost mittens
in the gutters. Sometimes you let me

take your cock in my mouth, but you
won't teach me the words I need to

buy a cup of tea. Your joints stick
with the cold, so the restaurant is too

far to walk .You wait for the bus
in the lobby and write postcards

to people I don't know. The red-hatted
man ahead of us in line winks, makes

his hand into a pistol and shoots us.
That night, I try to hold your hand

from my twin bed while the radiator
bangs like a hungry prisoner,
tin cup against iron bars, back and forth.

2 comments:

angela simione said...

that last line. geez. golden. it just seals the piece perfectly. i love this, christine. :)

Christine said...

Thank you, Angela! Your opinion means so much!