Don't Drink and Post

A Bar of Hotel Soap


Remind me how much I hate spring.
Skunking the dog. Melting the drive.
Potholes torn straight through to Hades,
evidenced by steam rising. This poverty.


A bar of hotel soap I might consider
a gift at this juncture.
A stone, a leaf, a bitter olive rolled
under your foot. Crushed, slivered,
it would depend on the spirit

in which it is offered. A crown, a clot,
baby's heart on a stick. Don't take it
personally--name no simulcurm this

token of my esteem

What a fine mesh
you've gotten us through this time,
Ollie.

I see myself in the airport hotel
alone, desolately glamorous, B-
movie magic lounging on cushions while the jets
taxi loudly below in meaningless urgency,
holding back all that power of
ascent and gunning
while runway position is assured.

Which sounds inside the room with the great bed
of engine noise. A great debate of dinosaurs.
What brutal concrete.

I signed a non-disclosure agreement with
reality. I am the desperate one driven to deals,
debtor and survivor. I am the one
who with raw need most keenly sees
what must be done. And shaves

the point and splits the hair, loads up
on hotel soap like currency-- you're the one
could get this past security. You
wonder you, you pay
for everything with your good looks.