The ashtray overflows
onto hotel stationery
and we sleep where the sun
cannot collect from us.
Our lush apathy is a stale room-
service meal left on the table
half eaten, and because
our hearts weight us slightly
to the left, we let them sink
into the mattress,
spooning catharsis
from each-others' spines.
Tomorrow, or the next day,
we will run, but this
morning the thunder clouds drift
glacially, and nobody cares
about our tiny sequestered heaven.
