A cat sits on a clock left on a coffee table,
and a magazine with fading pages
gets bleached over by florescent
green that is exacted from the neon
in the curving tubes that spell out
welcome home.
Stationary bikes give you the feeling
that two wheels can take you anywhere
and no one cares that when it’s over
you’re still alone in some hotel gym
where the paint is like a scab over the plywood.
There’s a drawer behind the front desk
where the card keys all get magnetized
and recycled back to new guests coming in.
The prom night crowd with their paper bags
of vodka and gas station snacks
all watch there backs as if their ancestors
were keeping tabs on everything.
The door man doesn’t even collect a paycheck
but his monthly check from some marble building
in the city keeps him comfortable in room 93
where he can’t remember anything important.
I check out as the evening ends and night
is taking hold of things so tightly there is no blue in the sky.
The water in the fountain in the parking lot
gets greener by the season since the owner never cleans it,
and the whole world doesn’t waste its time on wishes.
I run my hand over my forearm where the bike chain
made its mark on me and for a moment
I forget about the stitches.
I don’t know where I’m staying next
or how far it is to make it to the station,
but I am carrying so little I am light enough
to stumble on for miles.

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