pages

i have done all i can

the hotel is spinning above me
if i tilt my head at just the right
angle
i can see into the top windows.

there is a man holding a baby and the pieces of his broken heart,
a skipping girl who gently treads along the empty corridor.
a pail of tears for all the threads that were ended long before their time
unraveling from sir gordon's knot to trail away,
one yours, one mine.

the busboy bends to tie his laces,
a maid of honor checks the view.
and as the weatherman opens his laptop
the groom steps off the stool.

a visiting insurance salesman
here for the conference and the free feed
bumps into the foreclosed farmer while he throws the crucifix away.

many times the pretty maid with the pink flower in her hair
has snuck into the cabinet to meet the man who will decide her fate.
and as she closes her eyes and tries not to take in his air
she thinks of the little boy at daycare
with the second-hand blue jumpsuit and the wrenching stare.

a nervous man in an ill-fitting jacket is wondering if the price was right,
the lady in the tight black dress is wearing a wire
but she'll never tell.

the cranky squeak of the fire escape doors is offset by the noisy sign.
it tells me to keep it all shut;
withhold all information,
except the time.

the flowers delivered every morning used to be real, but now they are old.
the swimsuits they sell in their little shop came two years before us,
will never be sold.

birds used to visit,
but now that the journey is stretched beyond time and space,
they too crane their necks simply to get a glimpse of that mythical place.

and when all is finished, the check out time done
and sheets have been turned down once more,
i wriggle my toes in the dirt that's beneath me
and turn the pages.