Can you miss a hotel room?
Can it be home for a night? Two?
Like a bird that lands on a bough,
you sit and watch for a second,
give it a name, a personality,
call it Charley or something,
and then it flies away and you’re sad.
Because you and Charley hit it off.
I’ve written more poems in this room in 2 days
then I have all month back home.
Maybe the past two months…
The power of detachment. Feeling strange.
Being alone, and feeling it…. it’s what
I’m up early again. Watching branches
drift around and swirl in the river.
I realize I don’t know the direction
this river flows because there’s so much
boat traffic the currents slosh both ways.
I went to a mall in the center of the city.
There were three separate events happening
with a lot of cheering and a lot of screaming,
but none of it seemed real, it all seemed like
they were actors who were hired for the cameras
or just for me.
Then I took a taxi ride through the wet streets.
People out in nothing but shorts; no shirt, no shoes,
laboring at difficult tasks: throwing tarps onto poles,
heaving boxes onto trucks, shoveling cement, shit like that.
And smiling all the while rain fell and the night dragged on.
I wondered what they would think of our memes…
the privileged millennial ennui of the Internet:
people wanting to die because their boss
asked them a question.
I’m from a different generation,
but I’m not so different. I easily shrivel
at the slightest harm, mostly emotional,
mostly my ego crushed by minor oversights.
Once I felt unwanted because my cat jumped
off the bed when I tried to pet him, but that’s
what cats do. I guess that’s what we do too.
My poems are just stories,
because I can’t write poems
and I can’t write stories.
I just talk about my thoughts
and hit the space bar when it
And call it poetry.