The cat yowls at us,
hackles
like a matted
fur collar coat.
It will die in this heat.
Room 453 is ours,
an off green,
shower cubicle in the corner
curtained by lace
that once was white.
Someone has drawn
a heart, in the dirt on the wall.
Tinfoil holds the air conditioner
together, I lay on the bed
think of heroin
an’ cerise,
an angel with dirty feet
in the photograph you take.
Keys in art deco wardrobes
wear dust
an inch thick.
Higher still a gap
gapes into a grin as I sleep.
Down scurry scarab beetles
blues an greens,
through bare
floorboards,
out cracks in the walls.
Cairo has seen this before.
They are here for you and I,
come to pick our bones
clean
of a love
we will soon,
no longer know.
