Midwestern hotel room, company town
by Paul Turner
Gray whistling morn, a heartland start,
Dried-out nose and eye capillaries,
Hot berries rubbing nuked rolled oats.
Also this: weak coffee
Dripping into
A tiny beaker.
Look out the south window
From a towering pillow, or the low-slung couch:
No Winnebago overnighting in Wal-Mart's parking lot.
Time to vote again:
Leave hotel for traipsing in campus hallways, breakout spaces,
Squatting at someone else's shared desk.
Take the occasional ride on fast escalators and
Make stops at mini cafes loaded with cakes, fried food, and
Every other known goodie.
At noon at the outsourced basement cafeteria:
Waiting for Chick-fil-a sandwiches, Tex-Mex beans,
Or big cheese things.
Wait -- before I de-ice the car, and
March in Mainer headdress from a distant parking space to heavy campus doors,
Shall I write the reports, in private, in my company tee shirt and drawers?
