The Holiday Inn sign issues the kind of light
you inhale through a dollar bill.
On the fringe of the parking lot, it’s a lot like
the Wild West: a grave Corolla rusts,
and someone pisses on an oak at dusk
as if his urine were an axe.
I commission a new scent to enter
rooms before me and pat down its occupants,
confiscating cellphones and sketch pads.
It’s not paranoia if your interest is academic.
I’m flannel-mouthed. Produce a sweat that lingers
like a waxy second skin. In the corner, the last American-made
pinball machine grazes on quarters.
But the concierge doesn’t care. His yawn is wide and full
as a luscious lash arcing over the eye of finance.
That’s a mouthful, over the phone. Can you say that again?
The piped-in music swells like teen acne.
The concierge nods solemnly. He can, he can.