The smell of Mexican food
compels me up the stairs
despite the fact that I was headed
there anyway.
Musty carpets
mingled with pollo
and pico de gallo –
I think it’s comforting.
3rd floor.
I peer down the hall
intimidated by its infiniteness.
it would seem wider
were it not for the paintings
covering every inch of wall…

Civil War revolutionaries,
Nefertiti’s chambermaid
reading hieroglyphs,
a snowy afternoon,
slaughtered African wildlife
and I’m only at Suite 302.

Maybe I should have entered
through another door –
unless that’s where I exit…
if I even exit at all.

Watercolor,
photography,
the asking price
out of my range.

Where does this hallway end?
I saw the beginning –
at least I thought it was,
hidden by another staircase.

I’m afraid to stop –
306 –
less these dried
color messages wrap me
in the minds of their creators.

I once wrote a poem about
a piece of art…
Deep, thoughtful and questioning
the meaning of life.
I read it to the artist.
They said they were inspired
by pop cans at the grocery store.

My soul shattered that day.

Putting the pieces together in
Suite 314.