Your body is a hotel room for others
replete with room service, wake-up calls and a
Do Not Disturb sign
hung from the doorknob like a noose.
Every caress on skin, each nail scarring flesh
is a train ticket to freedom,
or so you think.
Mealtime your chair sits empty here.
Neither my wife or me meet eyes,
forking food into our mouths like
a granary with empty chutes
Nighttime we sit in soft cushioned chairs,
waiting for your calls that never come,
which is how we know you
really mean it this time.
Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’m Not Supposed to Be Here and Neither Are You, out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at http://lenkuntz.blogspot.com.