just in case
every time i come here
i request a room with a king bed—
with sheets unslept (on)
with rainy sidewalks untrodden
with wide-eyed morning air unbreathed
with warm, jangling doors unopened
with friends and family unmet
with seasons unlived,
footprints unmade
in the ruddy hotel carpeting,
pillows unmoved, Just So
on either end of the retracted sofa,
an unclasping hand
whose body runs the gauntlet of hallways—
it’s nice now
that i’m used to a bed.