The roller bag skates the glossed
floors of the lobby. Down the hall
the keycard slips into the lock, a neat
kiss. The door swings wide, the carpet
smells of soap. Twin lamps
flank the bedside. He shuts himself
inside, unpacks
shirts and ties, and hangs
these flattened selves
in the bathroom, shower running hot.
Paces back out to the bed, where
the room watches him undress.
Takes his pale image
in white undershirt & shorts
and pastes it in the mirror
with the others, the many
who’ve passed through
the tight envelope of sheets. Loosened
the branches of the body, finally
alone, a crab-apple tree in May.
Darkness embraces even
the space between
white flowers, until they fall
as snow on the carpet.
“Business Trip” originally published in Pilgrimage (Volume 38 Issue 3: Sleep).
