Ecclesiastes at the Super 8

Three hours is a long time

to be right about nothing.

The room smelled like industrial soap

and something burnt underneath,

like the last guest ironed a shirt

and gave up halfway.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

Polyester caught on my jeans.

Pulled the nightstand drawer

for no good reason—maybe a pen,

maybe the habit of opening things

when everything else has closed.

Burgundy spine. Gold letters.

Page folded at Ecclesiastes,

the corner soft from other fingers.

I knew the chapter. Someone read it to me

years ago—a time for this,

a time for that—and I remember thinking

it was too neat, the way it balanced

everything into pairs

as if loss and gain

were just taking turns.

I sat with it open on my knee

and didn't read past the first verse.

The AC kicked on.

Parking lot light laid a stripe

across the ceiling.

Three hours to end up in a room

that smells like everyone

who ever needed to stop

but couldn't say why.

The page was already folded

when I got here.