Pipes in the Wall

The air in the hotel room is a dry, forced heat

that turns the back of my tongue to wool.

At 2:00 AM, the bathroom light is a cruel streak

across the tile. I fill the plastic cup until it’s full.

It tastes of minerals and a strange, metallic oldness,

not like the soft, lime-heavy water back home.

There’s a chemical sharp edge, a sterile coldness

that reminds me exactly how far I’ve had to roam.

Tiny bubbles cling to the translucent side

like they’re afraid to be swallowed down.

I drink it anyway, with nowhere left to hide

in this loud and this bitter, unfamiliar town.