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Mike Barlow

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Hotel Dream

The last time I saw him was in one of those hotel rooms with a
Gideon Bible
on the bedside table, a mahogany veneer wardrobe, and sheets
too starched for comfort on a hard bed.   I’d spent the evening switching
from one TV channel to the next, but gave up and turned in early.

Sometime after midnight he burst in, followed I was sure by a woman, not my mother, who disappeared into the bathroom.  I imagined
she was what he used to call a floozy, tight fifties perm, vermilion lipstick,
a polka-dot frock which flared in the wind to reveal suspenders.

He took his jacket off, flung it on a chair, then caught my eye, winked and put a finger to his mouth, this man who since the war
had never spent a night away from my mother,
except for the week in hospital shortly before he died.

I watched him undress, drop his clothes carelessly on the floor,
stand there naked, just as I remembered as a boy, thin bony legs,
pot belly, strong shoulders going soft and slack.
A laugh came from the bathroom, then the lights went out

In the morning he faced me as I shaved.   I wiped the mirror
but he stayed, his worried eyes trying to ask me something.

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