Hotel Room Floor
on the hotel room floor,
not knowing where I’m going.
Where is my life at this moment?
Do I even deserve it?
My tears soak the carpet.
I belong on the floor.
It is the only thing that would have me,
with open arms.
I lay here.
The rough bristles caress my face
as I ponder my future.
Do I even deserve it?
Nothing I have now means anything.
I am at peace.
Let me sink
into the carpentry.
This is indeed a place for me.
Sorry for Breaking It
I switch; a dumb move precedes catastrophe.
Amazon in a printed dress, her neck fragile,
shatter ceramic, apologies are like glue,
fixing mistakes. I feel terrible, still.
Accidents forgiven, not forgotten,
mistakes make or break creatives.
Things were fine seconds ago.
Let this not become a “remember when you-” moment.
I apologize. Please, let the glue do its job.
This year’s company orgy was a disaster. The concept of hygiene seems lost on several employees. How are you cleaner at work? Why would you even allow your spouse to leave home in such states of stench? I’m not in the business of relations with the unkempt. Though orgies are naturally filthy there’s a certain organized chaos within. We are not animals. We are co-workers. Therefore we should behave as such. I won’t stand for this sort of unclean behavior for much longer. I hope to see improvement next year. Baths beforehand, everyone should smell like assorted soaps and lotions. No matter your size, you shouldn’t be sweating before disrobing. I don’t care how anxious you are. Be professional and above all else be clean.
There’s a woman on stage. A man is next to me. He leans over and says “She’s hot.” I nod because having a conversation in this place would be difficult unless you’re in one of the backrooms. I’ve never been there but I’ve heard tales. At some point the woman comes from the stage and stands in front of me. She’s beautiful though it’s difficult to tell in this light. Her energy feels almost tangible. She says something to me. I can’t hear her properly. It sounds like gibberish. The guy next to me says “Lucky you.” The woman reaches for my hands and pulls me to my feet. Well, I allow her to pull me. I’m bigger than her though she does seem to have a sort of strength unmatched. In the same way ballerinas are strong. You know what I mean? Now I am walking along with this woman, who has strong legs, strong arms and flexible parts, she leads me to a backroom. The lights are colored here, looks like Christmas mixed with Halloween. “What’s going on?” I say as I am pushed onto a couch. She puts a finger to my lips and leans forward. I can now smell this woman. She smells fantastic. With pillow-like lips a whisper hits my ear. She says my name and then I am taken.
Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His work has appeared in Three Drops from a Cauldron, A Twist in Time Magazine, Neon Mariposa Magazine (among other publications). Twitter.com/storiesyoumight / https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/ His mini-chap collection of 3×3 poems is available now.