It seems he only drinks from waterbearers on borrowed time, else less satisfied than masturbation. It’s still January here in March for all of them.
Or perhaps it’s only ghetto riche gypsies who call his trashed motel room home,
and shamelessly shuffling survival Polskas through the void, like their last of a millennia,
instead of pouring into separate graves at the close of the next; receipts reading “paid in full.”
They’ve one brief worry
as the carpet
But no one leaves
that easier alternative
to finding five stars
preferred to relieving their uninsured debts.
The order of those words doesn’t matter,
flashing backward in the mirror shine of keys left on the lobby counter
Somewhere, in a different hotel, another man sucks leftover crab from his fingers and wretches. He paid for a very different five-star experience and not even concierge knows why he stays.