Edward Hopper, Hotel Room
by Mark Katrinak
As is the suitcase, many lives
come partially unpacked, as one
life’s clicking open to another bed,
the light and shadows of its travels.
The destinations fail. The sunlight falls
indifferently through drapeless windows,
but falls complete amid its wanderings,
highlighting dust and joy and sadness equally.
A garment draped over the green chair’s arm,
the all-too-familiar suitcase tag,
black hat and shoes; these cool materials,
superficial, fool you toward a fake
significance, into thinking permanence,
the sunlight never sitting still, the green
discoloring slowly over time.
The stay is brief. There is no single place.
Mark Katrinak has published in Bayou, Southwestern American Literature, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Pinyon, and other literary journals. Originally from Cleveland, Mark now lives in Golden Valley, AZ. He enjoys woodworking, fine wine, and spending time with his family.