The drawer pulls open and there it is—

The drawer pulls open and there it is—

thick spine, that particular hotel blue,

a book no one I've ever met has read

in a room no one stays in long.

I don't touch it. I don't need to touch it.

I already know it's meant to comfort

the kind of lonely that travels,

that checks in at night and wakes up

in a place that isn't home.

The Bible sits in the dark of the drawer

like a secret everyone knows about,

like comfort that's ready but never taken.

I'm looking for a charger, a notepad,

something useful. Something mine.

Instead I find this stranger's gift,

this reminder that the hotel owners think

people like me need saving.

I close the drawer.

The Bible stays where it was placed,

patient in the dark, waiting

for the next person who needs

to believe that something is waiting for them.

I get back into bed.

The room is very quiet.

The drawer is very full of nothing I can use.