You called, beloved, how mundane!
My hotel number, which must have
faded from the crook
of your arm by now -I
know how you sweat there,
how the rash builds up,
red and yellow, flaking
towards the edges and the centre-
charming, I'm sure.
I turned on the tap and
let it hiss at you while I hummed,
and over the noise I yelled
"I am sick of this fishbowl," and
you stayed away,
and I spent too much
on room service robbery-
crisps, ice-cream, pizza,
comforting lump in my gut,
and fell asleep dazed
and upside down with
my head hanging off
the edge of the bed
and oh
did that hurt
in the morning!
