Hotel Room
Pamela Davis
Walls. No more than my body fits
between bed and door. I kick
off shoes that pinch, the thick wool
hose. Stripped to a silk shift, I sit
at bed's edge watching a violet sky
pass into black. Tomorrow they'll bury
my brother. The night is young.
I could do up my hair, head
down to the bar—it's worked
for me before. The suitcase waits
like a dog at my feet. What if I skipped
town? Let the trees
stand for his eulogy. This room
of no memory holds nothing of me.
I must wake early, change 
into everyday flats. Walking backward,
I'll arrive at last week. Finding me gone,
the hotel maid will pass a quick cloth
through the bureau's empty drawers,
carry off my black felt hat under her coat.

after Edward Hopper's painting, 1931

Pamela Davis is a California poet with recent work appearing in Prairie Schooner, Painted Bride Quarterly, Existere Journal of Literature and Art (Canada), Natural Bridge, Sou'Wester, Stand (UK), Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Zone 3. A recipient of Atlanta Review's International Poetry Prize, Davis has also been published in Nimrod as a semi-finalist for the Neruda Award, in Southern Poetry Review's special Poets of the West and West Coast issue, as well as in CALYX, Folio, Jabberwock Review, New Ohio Review, Southern Humanities Review and other literary journals. In addition to freelance editing and writing, she has a first book of poetry making the rounds. Her first summer job was working as a go-fer at her father's mortuary.

more by Pamela Davis:
Your Chair
Build to Suit
Birds Caught in Windows