Paul Archer - photo Paul Archer - poet, translator



In his Single Room at the Hotel

After heated accusations
And bitter recriminations
It's silent now, exiled from
His own home to this hotel room.

No need to draw the curtains to
The metal blind segments the view
Of grimy glass and blackened brick,
The necklace beads of traffic.

And all he sees is all he's lost,
Thresholds he can no longer cross.
He turns away, brushes his teeth.
Sinking into bed, his disbelief

Haunts him again while he sets
The wake-up alarm and then lets
The lights be turned off one by one
And air-conditioned darkness come -

And his nerves begin their weaving
Back and forth across his breathing.

© Paul Archer - All Rights Reserved