Hotel

by Matt Pitt

They don’t rent rooms to the likes of me
but here’s the trick:

drift between the box trees,
pass beneath the pear drop chandelier
like you own the place.

The lifts are my freight trucks:
open, free,
sighing between each gilded
possibility.

I tread the carpets, furlong
after furlong, breathe
the corridor narcotics of
furniture polish and freshly cut lilies.

In the cool chiaroscuro of a toilet
you might almost call me handsome.
(So why should I not also dream

of sales reps, spies,
and bored, subversive chambermaids?)

I hang around.

Sometimes
I stumble on a half-open door.
Lonely, agape,
like an unbuttoned blouse.