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a poem by Zoe Dzunko
IN A HOTEL ROOM, NASHVILLE
After the honkytonks closed and the liquor
store closed, we are trying to keep the beer cans
tepid in a drawn sink, but they float above
the surface like swollen fish, silver scaled and
washed to shore by an ocean storm. In four hours
we are eating in the hotel restaurant, soaking dry
biscuits with gravy -- white and mucous thick,
sweetening black filter coffee until it turns
bitter once more. But for as long as the night
holds, we are Born To Run or we are crying
for Atlantic City; we are screaming, "I love you
Nashville," at a bolted glass window, over the neon
Martini glasses, guitars and blinking horseshoes;
screaming over the churches, radios and Christian
life stores, as your hips grind against my own
in the most holy of unholy fashions.
store closed, we are trying to keep the beer cans
tepid in a drawn sink, but they float above
the surface like swollen fish, silver scaled and
washed to shore by an ocean storm. In four hours
we are eating in the hotel restaurant, soaking dry
biscuits with gravy -- white and mucous thick,
sweetening black filter coffee until it turns
bitter once more. But for as long as the night
holds, we are Born To Run or we are crying
for Atlantic City; we are screaming, "I love you
Nashville," at a bolted glass window, over the neon
Martini glasses, guitars and blinking horseshoes;
screaming over the churches, radios and Christian
life stores, as your hips grind against my own
in the most holy of unholy fashions.
© by Zoe Dzunko
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011