First night running away
The blue mosaic floor is broken and stained;
the mirrors above the dripping taps advertise
names, sex stunts and phone numbers;
Orange light bulbs glow dim above each stall;
walls emit smells of human wastes and wet cigarettes.
The crone in street stained rags says
this place provides good shelter
from the December rains. You stare
out at the curtain of rain, undecided,
to go or to stay; her oily hands offer you
a red plastic bag of yellow noodles,
leftovers from the dumpster behind
the Chinese eating place. Eat. Eat.
Im not hungry. but the stomach groans,
contradicting the tongue that too often
rushes to issue ultimatums and threats;
the tongue that waters to swallow regrets
or dries up to keep from admitting mistakes.
**Changed it a bit since the reading on Saturday.
