Hotel Vampires
by Michael Estabrook
I hate hotel bathrooms because�
it never fails that they bristle with� a combination of mirrors enabling you, nay,�
encouraging you,� to view, and always suddenly�
and unprepared, which is to say not on purpose,� the top or back of your innocent head.�
And the top of my head is not a pleasant sight.� Residing thereupon right in the middle is one�
of those scruffy bare patches, surrounded� by hair, a bald island in a sea�
of dirty brown and gray. The problem is� I forget it is there, forget it presents�
such an ugly landscape.� I can never see it, of course, unless someone�
takes a picture of me from behind� or I’m in a fucking hotel bathroom and happen�
to look over and wham!!! there it is,� clear and bright as a supernova, sprung�
on me again, surprise!!! look� at me and how old and unattractive�
I have become. Fucking hotel bathrooms!� Next time I’m going to pretend�
I’m a vampire and cover up all� the evil mirrors waiting to ambush me
and make me cringe.