Dream Hotel
The one I seem to check into twice a month,
greeting the desk clerk who never reciprocates.
I walk up the rickety stairs, suitcase and life in hand
and enter my room that makes bare bones sound
voluptuous. I prop a pillow against the wall, sprawl
out on the small bed and stare out the open window,
the air smelling sweet as chocolate covered almonds
and I watch images of people I’ve known but can
no longer place go by, until my mother and father,
young as the day I was born, appear briefly before
moving on. I take a chunk of bread and a book from
the suitcase, nibbling and reading throughout the night,
content with this feast I’ve prepared, sweeping the crumbs
off the pages, careful not to damage the extraordinary words.