Through the cloudy, bullet-proof glass,
That the thin, small woman
Has a gold stud in her nose.
I fill out the card
And slide it, and thirty-five dollars,
Through the slot.
She seems to stare down at the desk
But watches me like a television
In her third eye.
I wonder how deeply she sees,
The pen in her hand stock-still,
Her mouth open.
I wonder how far her senses can go
Into my thick past,
My problems.
I’m the weirdest thing she’s ever seen
Or maybe just everyday,
Only clearer.
There’s curry smell
And a sensation
Like marijuana.
-
In the room,
One pillowcase
Is gray from greasy heads.
The shower curtain is
A torn nylon tarp, and a nickel-sized hole,
Not a peephole, is in the door.
She gave me
No
Key.
Since I have my good camera,
I strip and I shoot myself
On the carpet.
What else could
Such a place
Be for?
I spend an hour
While she watches me from across the parking lot,
Acne under her chocolate-brown face.
I
Don’t see
Her.
The strength of my awareness,
My picture, my fine tuning,
Makes hers, for that time, even stronger.
A five-dollar bill
Lies
On the discolored pillow.
This is more,
I’m sure,
Than she
Usually
Gets.
by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -
www.cokescroaks.com
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