Pack a suitcase

Pack a suitcase
and find me.

I'm here in rooms
strewn with small purses of coins
and stale cigarettes that
my lungs won't take in anymore.

In here, I've found a small light
out from my window that
I've been staring at for hours now
And the small cracks
that sound from the ice in my vodka
make me think that perhaps
it's you walking up the hall
to me.

In this old hotel,
full of black men who holler at me
and a bellhop
who speaks with a slow drawl
and limps
as he takes grey bags into other rooms, I will
finish the bottle
I will smoke the stale packet
I will find blues on the small radio next to the bed
I will think of you in the hue of the city light
I will silently fall into bed
with my socks still on and my hand on my chest.

Pack a suitcase
Find me.

Get the latest essay, memoir, reportage, fiction, poetry and more.

Subscribe to Griffith Review or purchase single editions here.

Griffith Review