The Hotel Room

by Isadora H. Petrovsky

Open window casts pale light on a stark white bed

Pickled with lint and fabric excess from a too soft scarf

I sit by said window

Drinking in clouded skies

And gray brown landscapes

The visage is cold, unfeeling almost

As if the world outside knows no one, and certainly does not know me

A storm is coming, forewarned by the single massive cloud that stretches almost as far as I can see

Steam erupts from a factory nearby

And the birds fly away

Their silent flight and the billows of gaseous water make up the majority of the earth’s movement

Consigned to the frame of this lone window

In the hallway, the sounds of melodic chants, speckled with static buzz


Latin words are sung over and over, as if I am meant to be reverential while peering out my lone window

Perhaps once I was

While the hallway sings of God, I sing of solitude

I do not let words escape my mouth, but fingers fly as my head lulls to the side

The sound of the end all be all is inescapable, 

The crashing of the music, the slow way their words lift up into rafters unseen

Something is coming

Though what I cannot tell,

All I feel now is extended solitude and a tightness in my chest as the sound of the fridge kicking in interrupts the chants reaching me from the hallway, barred by the closed and locked door.


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April 14, 2021