5-star

The Mandarin Hotel, Jakarta.

5-star, bordering on the Milky Way.

Bathrobes a polar bear would kill for,

slippers I slide about in still.

A bowl with fruit so exotic,

you need a licence to peel

and instructions on how to eat.

A bed as big as this room.

Attached to a cellophaned bouquet of flowers

that looks too dangerous to unwrap,

a card from the Hotel Manager

who welcomes me (misspelling my name).

He telephones: Could we be photographed

together for the Hotel Magazine?

Puzzled, flattered and vaguely disquieted,

I agree. Within minutes

I am holding a glass of champagne,

his arm around my shoulder,

flicking through my limited series of smiles.

Then the inevitable: I am not

who he thought I was. I am not

who I am supposed to be.

He laughs it off, apologizes, and leaves,

taking the rest of the champagne with him.

I walk out on to the balcony.

From the 37th floor the city seeps

towards the horizon like something spilled.

Something not nice. That might stain.

I go back inside. Examine my passport

and get out the photographs.

A couple who could be anybody

against a wall that could be anywhere.

A dog. Children smiling.

I unwrap the flowers. Open the maxi-bar.