A Canary Cage and Mustard Gas

Once every two months
I have to take a room at a hotel
“Your highest room”
And I carry my own bag
Counting each step in the fire escape stairwell
Every inch away from the ground
And all of it
Every half-inch of all of it

Up on this height in my room
I move toward the large window
And I can’t stop looking
And I can sense that it has followed me here
With the knocking on the door
“House keeping” but it’s a lie
Scraping at my door
My door that I deadbolt in my room in my height

I re-fix myself on the window
Then reassure myself by going through the channels on the TV
And refilling the ice bucket which I put
By the window
Knocking again but this time fainter
While I carefully stack the hotel’s monogrammed stationery
Into my bag

I lean close to the window
To steal a little fresh air
And the trees blur
With the reflection of skyscrapers and my humidity
Suddenly I want to write a poem or
Watch a film or walk
Because now I’m smiling against the glass
In my smile and in this height

What troubles you and I are bloodhounds
And while I may hide quietly in a sidewalk crack
I can feel the weight of others’ feet upon me
And I make many remarks toward the lack of air.
My scent is sweet and distinct
Like a woman behind closed wooden doors
Left behind in every word
Every imprint of my shoe
And it can follow
They can follow in stride.

“Your highest room”
So I can look out the window
While my trail disappears
And my scent begins to fade
Leading them astray to courtesans
Or dinner theaters
And I, now but a whisper of cigarette smoke
To dangle out above the city in our height
And rest inside a warm love
When the buildings sleep as well