The Threat of the Comfort Inn

In bell jar, the grizzled remains
of heavy summer lumber.
Arms up, maw stuffed
with thick lacquered tongue.
What Mat-Su afternoon ended
in this lazy edit?

Down the hall, ice cubes calve
inside the ice machine.
A corner of carpet
begins its slow curl.
The hostess’s pink nails
drum down the seconds.

Her bored blue eyes shift
to what water could reanimate—
what animal would tear
into poly-mix beds,
split continental-fed businessmen
from wallet to ear.

But what’s there remains
in state under the ten-point shadow
of a deer antler chandelier.
A slippery procession of children
shuffle past, move from pool
to room to chlorine-rimmed sleep.

Whatever tragedy would allow her
to go home early, happen now.

—DANI COUTURE

(Originally published Christmas, 2007.)