Hard Water

The motel air is thin and cold,

the sheets are starched too tight.

I’m awake before the world is old,

in the middle of the night.

I rinse the cup to clear the grit

and take a heavy swallow.

The chlorine has a bite to it,

and the metal taste is hollow.

The faucet’s got a crust of white,

like salt along the rim.

It’s a different kind of wrong tonight,

in a room that’s grey and dim.