The sun seems to stretch into the room in tangerine
sentences of light. I sleep next to her
coat, periodically digging my nose in the interior like a beak, as if I am an
ornithological specimen seeking worm-riddled sustenance to partially
regurgitate and then feed to the young.The day is completely translucent. There is a spring air
that enters the room with a subtle. The sound of traffic hushing by at all hours
of the night is somehow lulling. Like when I stayed at O’hare two months
earlier and fell in love with the tandem soundtrack of planes thrusting and the
L-rattling by.
I go to sniff the coat again. Justin lets go of a rattled
snore. I waltz past him, looking out the window of the Glouceaster
The television is showing pictures of tanks back in america.
I exit the hotel room, her coat draped over
my forearm in case I perchance to saunter into her over breakfast.
It is my eighth day of the sojourn.
It is time to fly.