Hotel

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Postcard Farm on flickr.com

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That was the year of hotel rooms
Bad judgment, some salesman with a model contract
In Prince George
And I was all about irony: a mini-skirt
Hair like a veil, but my home was the library

My home was the library, not a cheap bedspread and
Some guy with a moustache saying, My wife can’t understand me
I had only been curious
In the dark, the yellow bedside lamp
Was damp and furious: my mini-skirt fell off
And the Vietnam vet in the next room cried: Don’t worry
We don’t carve up chicks
Personally

God said—it was God’s voice on the radio—in the guise of
My school friend, Tom—a DJ—
God or Tom—said on the radio: Please call
So I leapt up, all reasonable and not confrontational
Not at all stoned, and I phoned
Dear Tom, wherever you are
I’m telling you now
Then I ran down the hall. The policeman who stopped
Me driving said I’d been going too slow. Oh  

There was also the year of the knife, the year of the gun
The year when God’s voice whispered, again and again
What are you trying to do
Kill yourself? But this was the year of hotel rooms
When I looked into corners nobody swept and felt
Their pull; when I wore my hair like a pall
And didn’t know how lovely I was at all