In a hotel
I never catch a movie at the start, it is at
Two-thirds left, or half, or fifteen minutes, or credits.
I never take the whole bed. Only half, or the edge.
The stacked pillows on the other side
Bleach odors prove a person worked through,
Cleaned and folded and smoothed
This bed among dozens or hundreds today.
At times I don't want her to do extra work,
And hang Do Not Disturb on the door.
More often, to my shame,
I don't want a pickup, but want
To know another person walked through,
Did their thing, and left.
Like at a home instead of an asylum.
Once I'm in, and set my bags down,
The only laughs are mine.
The only smells are mine.
The only sighs and curses are mine.
The only browsings are mine.
The only detritus mine.
The only heart beating, steady or erratic, is mine.
The only sloth is mine.
The only staring mine.
The only rush of water is mine,
Or my neighbor's.