Ceiling-Stare
by Odin Roark

A hotel he chose,
A place to hide from it all,
A city where visiting and living is one.

His door discourages house-keeping and others,
Its “Do Not Disturb” sign
Askew on the door knob,
Day and night,
Night and day.

He remains in his underwear
Eyes glazed over
Reflecting the dead life of ‘round-the-clock TV.

After midnight,
He sneaks down stairwells,
Past the sleeping desk clerk,
Out into more darkness.

A sparsely lit bar beckons.
A cheese and ham on rye,
A pint of …whatever,
Followed by more pints,
And more.

Ultimately,
Back onto the darkened street
This day’s deserted night,
Another walk without purpose,
Speed,
Or direction.

Finally,
As he slips beneath
Cold sheets before daybreak,
He stares at flaking ceiling paint,
Listens to splattering rain outside
Flooding the gutters with autumn leaves of red.

Aroused warring memories,
Flings him onto other streets
Where passion’s demise
Gutters flooded with blood
Dreamt by many
Lived over and over
By every soldier’s sadness,
Even as enemies gloat over the senselessness.

Such are the 24/7 dreams of soldiers past
Soldiers becoming
Soldiers with weekend passes
Waiting their turn to stare at ceilings.