A POEM FROM A PARIS HOTEL
by Susan Norton
When I get up in the morning and first put my foot on the floor,
I am already in the bathroom.
The only space for a chair is in the picture on the wall,
a copy of Van Gogh's Room in Arles.
I can stretch out my arms and open the window
and the door at the same time.
And alas, my dreams ricochet off the walls,
plummet onto the bed, bounce three times, then land flat in a heap on
the floor.
Must I go home to Cleveland to have the fantasy of an affair in Paris?
