Four Poems by Timothy Green

The Secret

We had to stop for gas and spent the night
in the town’s one hotel. A mirror on the wall
was the portal to another world. All night
I lay awake, watching the other couple lying
there. The man twisted around his sheet
like a rope he was climbing. The woman’s
shoulders at the far end of the bed. There wasn’t
much distance between them. Every minute
the clock gained a minute. Every hour, one
of them stirred. In the morning came the light,
rising slow like a tide over the dingy carpet.
Soon, they were drowning in it, even while
eating their eggs.

*

High-End Hotel

The heavy door’s high-end lock
beeps behind you after the whisper-
click of the air against the high-end
doorframe, and you shuffle down
the long hall of doors like dominoes,
each one sleek as midnight, deep
as the hole at the center of the galaxy,
each room its own universe flecked
with stars you move past at the speed
of light over the high-end carpet
whose lushness is not lost on your
slippered feet, a fabric so soft you
find yourself personifying, as if you
were a masseuse, your feet a massage,
and it thanks you, yes, the carpet
thanks you for pressing your heels
deep into its tissue as you tirelessly
trot to the elevator room, its gleaming
bank of metal doors a modern ladder
angels must ascend, but you descend
with the rush of a fatal drop, 39, 33,
so many floors, the numbers proudly
speeding up, then slowing down until
you reach the lobby, its celestial spheres
of chandeliers, and the man at the desk,
his attire more crisp than bacon, more
crisp than the freshest apple, more
polished than you would feel lying
prone at your own funeral, manicured,
minted, laced with the mortician’s
makeup, your face finally in death
a work of art, your casket itself not
as polished as the high-end stone
he stands behind, as you ask, in your
most confident voice, where you
might find the ice machine, there
were no signs, you see, and usually
there are signs, but no, he tells you,
we have no ice machines here, dear
plebeian, so please proceed backward,
up the elevators, down our longest
high-end hallway, and simply text
this fine desk for room service.

*

The Royal Estate

The sad prince was sad that he didn’t know
sadness. A butler brought his every whim.
Fetch me four hummingbirds playing the
harmonica, he’d said just this morning,
and here they were, blurred wings buzzing
against the silver lid of the dinner tray,
the harmonica propped up on a pair of
golden wishbones, everything gleaming.
And they were quite the quartet, two Anna’s
on the high end, a Rufous and a helmetcrest
taking bass. They even knew showtunes
and seemed pleased when the prince could
guess them, though the prince only sighed.
Next time, bring me something I don’t want,
he said to the butler, still perched at the door.
Didn’t I just? the butler replied. Through
a window behind them, across a long
courtyard at the far end of the great garden,
the lonely prince was watching with his
telescope, the words lost to the distance.
He handed it off to one of his several
handmaids. It wasn’t yet time for tea.

*

Typical Day

They turned a corner, climbed some concrete
stairs, and there it was: the park they’d never
leave. It rose from the hill like a dream. There
were people and frisbees. A dog chased a ball
off its leash. The blossoms were blooming.
The bees wove their way through the weeds.
It had been quite the journey to get there,
all the trains and the transfers, the tokens and
turnstiles, the numbers and letters, the red
and the blue and the green. Their feet were
sore from the walking. Their shoulders were
pink from the sun. It was a typical park from
a distance. But they knew that it was the one.

*

Timothy Green is editor of Rattle magazine, host of the weekly Rattlecast, and co-host of weekly The Poetry Space_ with Katie Dozier. He’s the author of a book of poems, American Fractal, and lives in Wrightwood, California.