In the motel bathroom, a teaspoon lies bent
beside a bar of soap wearing someone else's pubic hair.
The mirror has that yellow cough to it,
and my face comes back looking pawned.
A peach bruises slowly on the sink,
soft as an apology nobody signed.
I think of your mouth, all its bankrupt weather,
and how love always wanted exact change.
Outside, the ice machine groans like a widower.
I carry a bucket down the corridor in my underwear,
feeling almost royal, almost rabid.
The cubes shine like chipped teeth in church light.
By morning they will be water again,
which is the saddest trick anything beautiful knows.