The hotel ones that remind you
how desperately
you wish you had to
share a bathroom.
The ones that reflect off still bathwater
underneath your cheap beer
which you hold like a handrail,
sipping slowly,
because 3 dollars’ worth isn’t enough anymore.
The ones that let you see yourself
as you hide
the brightest light in the room
underneath exaggerated black eyelashes.
The ones that die
when the lamp hits the wall.
The ones that you make certain to dim
because faces aren’t important right now.
The ones that stare down at you
like sentinels of life
whose gaze you meet
when you’re withering away on a
narrow
hospital bed
surrounded by empty chairs
But the one at the end of the tunnel
is fake
it doesn’t illuminate anything.
It’s just God’s last joke.
Vasily Andreev is an emerging poet about to graduate high school and then drive cross-country.
Eunoia Review 