The Hotel Wildflower
There is no control in this luggage,
no cat in a windowed duffle bag.
There is flight, or there is the fleeing
from what is contained within
the duffle of your slumber, perhaps
an enormous cat stealing your air.
Without question we are within
one another. Your ice bin with brown
pleather vinyl contains me.
My plastic-wrapped plastic
coffee cups love your frozen water.
It used to be that the minibar
was free when we were kids.
Then we found out you were charged.
Still, you are gratis Crunch bars
and tiny Southern Comforts to me—
unopened, pure potential in the false
teak hotel highboy. My classic daytime-
induced by a strange and oversized bed.