Thirty-Seven

This motel room air

presses down, heavy and stale.

I lie on my back and stare

where the ceiling tiles fail.

To be perfectly white, perfectly new.

There's a map of faint stains.

And I trace them, a restless crew

of numbers, again.

I know each one by heart,

this weary, cracked display.

Tile thirty-seven plays

a starring part.

A subtle bloom, a watery scar.

It’s the only thing that feels real here.