Hotel Carcass

In the morning, a bellboy came to bring me my towel,
which will smell of you, and feel like you, and look
somewhat like you-- the sight of threads
ridiculously woven tightly, as if, in resistance,
someone will threaten to pull them apart.
Blushing to myself, I kept quiet, and politely said,
"thank you."

In the afternoon, the front desk called
and asked if they could come clean this room.
"Oh no," I said, "not this room... Not right now"--
the violence here soon mocking our mad nights
of love, as if, in resistance,
someone had told us the neighbors just died.
Blushing to myself, I kept still, and politely said,
"no, thank you."

In the evening, the cab driver knocked on my door
and asked for my luggage, which weighs heavily
like you, and feels shapely like you, and looks
preposterously like you-- the resemblance
almost uncanny to a juxtaposition of your thousand
sleeping positions, as if, in resistance,
someone had stuffed your bludgeoned body in it
(your bone-bits and ligaments still wrapped in my towel).
Blushing to myself, I kept calm, and politely said,
"meow."