Walls the color of old plums, a “tapestry”
above the bed: 4 dogs playing cards,
smoking cigars. One cheats, aces tucked
in his vest, squints at the schnauzer’s
royal flush and sighs. A wall-size mirror
doubles the room, doubles the double bed
into something immense, a mattress
for a troupe of acrobats.
Where are we? How did we get here?
And most of all, where’s Bambi?
I wouldn’t, couldn’t have dreamed
up this place if I’d read true romance
magazines for a year. In room 8,
someone’s having a row with someone
else. Cow! he accuses her.
Pipsqueak! You call this a honeymoon!
she yells back. Fighting
must have a titillating effect.
Silence for a minute. The pop of a cork.
And then of all things, giggling!
I bet somebody’s made the front page
of The National Enquirer staying here.
What if our room’s broken into by mistake?
What if the guy next door is a senator,
the girl Miss Panty Hose of 1968?
I chain the door shut, tape the keyhole
under your doubting gaze.
Your eyes glaze over, you begin your
impersonation of a sex maniac
who can’t get his clothes undone.
Sin makes us blush like innocents
nevertheless …
I fall asleep
dreaming of Bambi. There’s a forest fire!
I must get the dogs out! Intoxicated,
they dive out the window into a snowbank,
cards falling out of their clothes.
(Snow? An hour ago it was August!)
Room 8 lends the fire department champagne
to put out the flames. The senator’s
distressed-Miss Panty Hose is more
undressed than I am. She grabs him
by the nose, makes him say “cheese”
for the photos. Where will we stay now?
The dogs are grateful. One knows
a place down the road, Roxie’s.
“They treat you real good there,” he growls,
“pink lightbulbs and wait till you see
what’s on their walls …”
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