Hotel Room

Hotel Room

Two oranges on the counter

empty ice bucket, a pair

of clean glasses on the table. In

the corner daytime television

beckons, shows that leave me

feeling drunk by nine o’clock

the time I used to start my

day job or had planted a few

good hours in the garden. Now

I slump in a wicker chair, lean my

elbows on this glass-topped table

imagine what it would be like to call

this one bedroom home. I know

a man who said his dream was

to live for a year at the King Edward

in Toronto, clean linens every day

martinis in the lounge at four o’clock

but here I hear the constant traffic

and that guy who spends all his time

in the park, leaf blower attached

to his arm. I start to change the room

move a wall, exchange pictures, bring

a desk, wonder how much time

I’d spend here anyway, beach

ten steps away, park across

the boulevard. I foresee blooming

allergies from the carpet, sand

in every grout of bathroom tile.

I hear my voice complain about

the tiny kitchen; I see my future

self pick up that remote at nine o’clock.