She told me about the dream

as the sun blew holes in darkness,

how I said, “It’s okay. I’m a monk,”

while we tried to sleep on the train,

bumping knees as we tossed and

turned in the rocking silver tube.

 

We told each other many privacies,

things reserved for therapy sessions,

our trust cemented in ten minutes

of instinct, believing what we saw.

When your ride came, you asked

for a hug before I could say the words.

 

For now, this is my monastic cell:

a narrow, thin mattress, one window,

a tiny desk for the lamp, my suitcase.

Even the tv is small, black-and-white,

so unlike my life should I choose

to change its course from the past.


(after the photograph, “Room 125, Westbank Motel, Idaho Falls, Idaho, July 18, 1973,” by Stephen Shore)