Watching The Master Builder
the other day, I was struck
by the long stretches
of total unconsciousness
on the part of the main character.
Filled with long exposures of trees
and light, scenes shot on a train,
distract from his Faustian struggles.
On Wednesday night I’m seeing you,
I’ve got one foot here and here’s the other.
It’s too much to hope for pleasure.
How will I meet you this time? The break-
fast here is generous for a hostel.
The granola tastes like butter,
orange zest leaves a mark of hospitality on skin,
along with warming cups of coffee served in mason jars.
My copy of Truman Capote’s “Answered
Prayers” sits on a long banquette
next to a Chinese checkers set
and letterpressed shaker recipes
calling for Bourbon whiskey and Campari.
I’m still hoping to find a panacea
in this narrow morning window. Last time
I checked, your face wasn’t
less handsome, just less hospitable.