Room Service

You treat my body like
room service for your soul.
You lift my silver lid
and tip with something gold.
I kindly thank you for this elastic satin ride.
But it’s hard to make a living (these days)
without learning to tolerate
all my pride.

It’s midnight
and then it’s 5 a.m.
I’m losing sleep figuring
how to pay
the bills

I’m reminded of how I left Illinois,
looking for a place to hide;
Somewhere far away,
where the Winters rarely snow;
Somewhere I could thaw
this frozen dinner
of a soul.

You were so gracious,
to treat me as a bell hop with an able whistle.
I’m pretty certain I was not cooked through,
but you grinned and bared
my icy center.

You deserve a four course meal
at an ocean side bed and breakfast.
All the same,
I hope you won’t mind
when I ask you to please recycle my plastic utensils.

When you’re finished,
roll my body into the stranger hallway.
I’m certain someone will come along
to take care of my leftovers
in a teacart service ceremony.

written on 09/15/2009 by: Matt Kane