How to become someone else in a hotel room

And simply say: I do

Hurtling west on the I-10, dodging the big-rig sandwich,
listening to songs that make no sense
and make me cry—
LA-bound, sentimental fool.

I’ve been feathering my new nest,
putting an orange mug in the pantry
that’s maybe also mine.

Still I catch myself
observing myself like a character in a film,
going through strange motions—
moving things back and forth:

art,
chairs,
candles,
flowers,
the little white cat statue I love.

All the while I wonder:

Who is this heavy blonde
who hung a macramé plant on the rafter
and bought a moss-green pillow
with two swans kissing?

Where is she going?

But then I got to the city—
saying a prayer at every left turn—
the people got younger,
the detritus thicker,

and LA responded:

long time no see.

I had my eyebrows waxed,
got a lemon-yellow manicure,
checked into humble Hotel Glendale
with the tufted headboard
and the swirly gold bedspread.

I took off all my clothes,
sipped a triple espresso,
settled into whatever presented itself

without asking why or how,
or whether I should arrange my limbs just so,
rehearse party talk for my back pocket,
overthink my eternal return.

I simply existed

on utilitarian starched sheets—
a faint whiff of bleach.

I used every single towel.

Tried the little orange shower gel.

And I thought:

Sometimes you shouldn’t judge in advance.

Or probably never.

Later I sank into the balmy patio
under the purple paper lantern
with an iced vodka,
watching tiny sparkly spiders
build hanging bridges between Coronas—

We chatted lazily
about Northern Soul,
Diddley bows,
and the invention of tikka masala.

The moon showed its face.

The guitar came out.

A Gibson?

A Fender Stratocaster?

The strong arms.

I said, you can play,

but not like Elizabeth Cotten.

And a few hours later
I placed my body next to me—

the boobs,
the butt,
the tree trunks.

I stopped rehearsing.

Because I can be amenable.

Glamorous.

Smart.

I can be the muse.

I think I did a pretty good
Lynyrd Skynyrd impression.

And when A. said
I look like Romy Schneider,

I simply said:

Thank you.

I do.