The Hotel by Austin Smith

The Hotel

The radiator holds

its boiling water

like an accordion

holding its breath

in a ditch. The room

itself is simple,

the sort rented out

night by night

to the poor to make

more poor or to die in

but it is not night

nor is she poor. She

could have afforded

a nicer room and it is

day. Closing the blinds

the way someone

takes out a contact

that’s been bothering

her, she lies down,

the only sounds

wrenches clunking

in the radiator

and a boy playing

piano in the lobby

like someone falling

down stairs. Clearly

he is unsupervised.

Clearly soon someone

will come grab him

by the wrist, shaking

him once, the way one

shakes a thermometer.

Clearly it is a boy,

or a drunk man

who’s never played

and wants only to feel

the cold ivory keys

the way a woman

will sometimes feel

the forehead

of a child she knows

is perfectly well.