Aqua cinderblock, channel stuck
to the preacher's face, the curling
message along the bottom promising
you an answer to your call. The air
conditioner, humming, dripping
like a sick bulldog. The mattress
dipping in the center like a punched-in
stomach. How the doorknob breaks
after the second day, so one of us
has to stay awake all the time. The last
coke from the vending machine, ticking
on the nightstand farthest away from me.
Your mother on the phone. Your girl-
friend. So hot it hurts to touch the pink
blanket; you slip a wet washcloth
under my neck. I touch your hair
with my tongue as you sleep-talk.
Comfort, lasting a minute.