Volume 9, November 2013

Curtis RogersView Contributor’s Note

White suitcase with tin hasps

He puts on a clean
shirt to shower. Does
as he always. Dries
off with another.

He wears a clean
shirt to the hotel
bar & asks for tapwater
& drinks alone.

He takes the elevator
to his paid-for window.
The view he has
is everything as honeycomb.

The view he has
arrived in is the one
he feels the need
to look away from.

Downtown of towers
on haunches, straining.
He looks away.

He calls the front desk
& asks for water—says
the water in his room tastes
funny & he will pay.

The water-bearing girl
who floats to his door
is chandelier-austerity.
She smiles a shard

of glass he has paid for.
He tips her picked-at hands.
But doesn’t touch her. Locks
then unlocks the door behind her.

Drinks, but spits when he does.
Removes his still-clean shirt.
Spits, but nothing comes.
Spits sky-clear curls in his sink.