The stories I follow merge
with the music rushing to convey
the manufactured date, the girl
or the guy in despair, but still
pretty enough to flash
in a sunny sort of way.
The room is bare, turquoise
and dark against the window.
I sit on the side of the bed.
The mirror catches my profile
lit by the dots racing across
the TV row by little row.
A suitcase lays its contents
on the pillow then the carpet.
It used to be my home,
every object chosen with care,
each with its own magical flair
in the tradition of Bastet.
I booked this town in advance.
My clients, well let’s leave them
without a trace, their bad day
looking for a realignment
of the supernatural kind
induced by a specific item.
The doorbell rings, it’s time.
I turn off the sound, my heels try
to fill the void with panache.
I open wide, flick my hair aside
and let the frail man enter. Pale.
Something to judge a life by.
Afterwards, frankincense.
I have to lock the doors,
the days, the faces, the towns,
the rides in the glass elevators,
empty after empty hotel rooms
I sleep in the beds and floors.