in hotel rooms
It’s the sashimi,
Butchered with plastic knives,
And shared among a heap of mochi,
That keeps us here.
“Can I join us?”
She asks like tomorrow we will forget her.
Like tomorrow, in a stale smoke haze,
Is a lucid certainty.
“Yeah. The tuna and strawberry mochi
Are like love.”
Simple and stained red
And gone before check out.
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
― James Joyce, Ulysses