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You checked into room number 39 because
that's the age of the worker who dug your grave.
And because you can't bear to tell the desk clerk
she needs a zinc bathtub of warm milk to soak
her tired feet--and tired back and skull-
for at least 39 minutes.
Relax, says the aloe plant in your window.
Nothing to fear, says the chipped radiator.
Says the newspaper's wilted corpse
on the faded floral carpet. Says the shirt
hugging the back of the chair
consoling the desk gone dizzy from staring
at the many coffee rings.
Nothing to be said, says that black pubic hair
clinging to the stiff, sallow lampshade.
A hotel room with closet, bed, sink, mirror,
because here it's harder for God
to pull you back to the morgue, back
to that dreamless hole in the ground.
Relax, says the mirror, take off your clothes.
And so you do. Falling back on the clean towel
you spread on the bed, your flesh tickled
by the nappy fabric.
Room 39, you say. The black hair still clinging
to the sullen lampshade.
Your friend,
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