Wednesday, July 6, 2016

The Hotel O. Henry

She was a plaster wall painted
with fake bricks, hung with sepia photographs
of what the building used to look like
I was a bathroom door someone had
scribbled filthy graffiti all over the inside of
I was busy looking for answers
instead of just loving the questions
She was busy needing to be right
instead of savoring the mystery
I flapped like a wing on my rusty hinges
She trembled every time the guests
blasted the television or fucked against
the headboard.
I kept straightening out her pictures
She kept painting over my graffiti
She sold all her photographs
to buy me a can of grease to lubricate
my deadbolt
which I had sold to buy her a roll
of picture wire
just like in that stupid maudlin story
Now we just sit quietly, waiting for some
city flunky to notice
that this building is certainly not fit
for human habitation.
In the meantime, my toilet overflows
and the stream of water runs down the hall
spelling "Merry Christmas Baby"
in pale yellow cursive on the linoleum.

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