I Live In a Hotel Now
05/2009 Joshua Abelow

I live in a hotel now.
I don't recognize anything, not even myself.
The lobby is empty.
It snows here in May, can you imagine?
Yesterday, a friend of mine turned sixty;
A painter-man, like myself.
He is the most generous man I have ever met.
I hope he lives to be a hundred and two.
He encouraged me to throw my phone in Lake Michigan three years ago.
Everything is different now.
The mountains disappear and everything turns white.
I am without a name and a face.
My legs and feet and arms and hands are invisible.
I mix colors.
I see the crowded bar and our barren room.
I see my wooden table and chair.
Books and paintings are neatly placed where they belong.
A single bulb dangles from the ceiling, making interesting shapes on the wall.
The sun begins to rise, but it's not obtrusive.
How did we get this drunk again?
I am wearing white.
You are wearing black.
You are laughing and whispering and shouting.
You smell like beer and cigarettes.
Are we playing chess?
Do you want me to make the first move?