Sunday, November 02, 2008

Escape Routes

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.

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