from morocco

chips of white paint,
falling from the ceiling.
jagged cracks in the walls,
running from top to bottom.
mattress sags,
sending up clouds of layered, knowing dust.
grated bars lace the windows,
overlooking a crumbling, salmon colored roof.
the yellowed light is dim,
failing to illuminate the dark corners
where
the cobwebs lie
and the forgotten dirt of ages rests.


the floor tiles pierce our feet,
icy nails
as we run to a shower
that was never warm
forget the reprieve of hot water,
for soiled skin
forget the talking
for parched voices,
our words bounce eerily
off the empty walls.
we sallow them whole
in this old hotel
that groans and bends.
where we are.