room 52, 3rd door on the left.

Jack Daniels
makes himself comfortable at my kitchen table.
The telephone cord is wrapping itself
around the tip of my toe,
devouring its prey.
Billie Holliday lulls me from
the record player in the corner.
She is the only woman
who loves me tonight.

In a room below, Melanie paces
in blue socks
around a poem supplied as a good-bye
from a boy who loves her
but every reason he gives of why
they are ment to be together
are the exact reasons
he cannot stay.

On the floor above,
a bohemian waitress and a painter
discuss Picasso
while fucking on the tile floor.
She inspires him, he says.
She contemplates painting her bedroom bright green.

Back in room 52, 3rd door on the left,
Jack Daniels is long gone,
the phone cord is cutting off the circulation
in my big toe,
and the dial tone has been mocking me
for some time now.