The Prisoners

The grinning light hangs
like a testimony.

Naked.
And staring
past the grey on grey
of crumbling walls
and dull metal morning.

The windows are unfocused,
not responding. As
these skeletons of red-gravel
streetlights unfurl to astounded silence,
the profiles in the ceiling cracks
are all asleep.

I see dead men walking like trees.

An alarm rips
the foreign air.
A car coughs
like a baby.

In the depths
of this hotel room,
cheap perfume turns to frost.

I look at your picture,
almost smiling.