No Vacancy

As vacant as beach hotels in rainy season,
I stand facing you, your stormy eyes dark,
slow dancing in circles under milky clouds.
Like jalousie windows in those lonely rooms
that don’t crank closed completely,
I’m a flashing neon sign, a skeleton
under an opaque sky, exposed by each word
before we talk the same small talk we always talk.
When you say more words I don’t want to hear
I kiss you as the moonlight turns searchlight
zeroing in on two raw x-rays. On the phone
vibrating in your purse, the phone you never
let me see, is your husband calling,
asking when you’ll be home.