He scudded up
in a muck-spewing truck
spitting black on the air
and had sure traveled far,
parked without regard for lines;
kicked out, no regard for the door,
left it akimbo to suck in the wind
that whistled in gape—nothing more.
He bounced from the weight of the super-stuffed sack
that he wore on his back
like a ricocheted ball through a wicket—
past an indolent doorman with eyes upward cast
and a bellhop who knew not to wait
or bother himself with a ticket.
In, collected, he bound straight to the right desk:
"One per top dresser drawer.
Just one—no more."
As though freeing a bag of grass blades, he shook out his sack on the floor.
As the bellhop dropped one in a top dresser drawer,
he cursed:
"No one opens or reads or adjudges this right.
The difference between these words
and contrasting white of their backgrounds
will not meet the light."
©7art
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