there’s no place like home.
I’m in this hotel room over by
Stuyvesant Park, trying to write.
she freaks out with enough regularity
that I the guy working the front desk
knows me by name. I take the room
that none of the tourists want -
the one right above the street
with all the accompanying bustle,
arguments, and car alarms.
I can’t write unless I hear that stuff -
maybe I need proof that life exists
beyond my own sometimes claustrophobic
imagination.
tha words come to me more easily here,
seems I write better where it’s calm…
but not for long.