W

That between hotel rooms
doorway, loop hole
in my story, rarely used,
opens questions

to the last fading
balcony light. Is it
one door or two? If one,
does it lock

on both sides? If on
only one, who chooses who

gets to hold the key?
Would it be you? Would it be me?
Would it be the concierge
deciding if it’s a good night

for matchmaking? Do we fit
his image of accidental lovers,
or would he be wicked
in his plotting domestic traveling

disturbance? Or perhaps he just wants
to see what could happen—lets it drop

into the can
without remembering if
he secured us in or out,
or not at all.

After the Resurrection

To eat lemon
cake with a spoon,
to dream of walking on
that bridge with you

(not beneath it
in a tourist vessel),
to be so confident
grace will follow

is to be willing to go
where there are no
sidewalks and still reach
the hotel before it rains.

To choose to stay
there instead of in

a house, to fantasize
about local lobbies

and dimly lit bars
encased in translucent glass

and steel where the coffee is
strong and black, to imagine

the sound of an elevator door
opening at my feet

is the closest I come to memorizing
the music woven
into the fabric of this chaise
we might share.

Multiple star, high
end hotel with its opaque
smoke and mirror

windows and dark
corridor leading to a bar
she just wants to see

to steal a setting
for her make-believe
life. She doesn’t wear

her glasses. She won’t
go inside. Her nearsightedness
leaves her

outside conjuring
up sidewalk
impressions instead.

Polka-dotted purple martin
hotels create symmetry for one

home not far
from Retreat Drive. A warm

Sunday morning late
November south
of the lake by many miles.

I don’t really know where I am—
only that I’m not framing my own

home, am still hoping
to spend one night in a hotel
in my own town.