Housekeeping
the sun fights a turf war on my eyelids
and I wake, head quaking, to the big
knockover. “Housekeeping. Do you
want your room serviced? Sir, hello
housekeeping.” The room is dank and
asphyxiated. It takes a good five minutes
while I rearrange the mental furniture
before I see the dead hooker lying next
to me, face gouged in pillows, black hair
on a bed of roses and an anchor tattoo on the
back of her thigh. Bruises climb her skin and
there’s bottles of booze and a “silver member”
card on the nightstand nipple-zipped with
Florida snow. In a seasick wave the room
tilts &
I lunge towards the bathroom to throw up.
“Hello? Housekeeping.” I wipe my mouth.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, just a minute.” And that’s
when the dead hooker rises from the dead.
I’m already at the door, cock half-hanging
out of the hotel robe, telling the Slavic girl
that I forgot to hang the Do Not Disturb
sign and that my wife and I overslept —it’s
our anniversary. But by then she’s behind
me, her face studded with makeup, her
back-alley babydoll lingerie trafficking
a tart coital come on. She flashes an ankle
bracelet and asks housekeeping if she’d
like to join us for a little role playing.
We’d be happy to pay for her services.
©2023 Damon Hubbs All rights reserved.
Damon Hubbs is interested in pulpy paperbacks and films with over-saturated colors. Recent poems have been featured in The Beatnik Cowboy, Scud, Datura, The Chamber Magazine, and Horror Sleaze Trash. Links to his published work can be found at dmhubbs.blogspot.com. Damon lives in New England.