Later, cannot dream a man outside the room
he claws for air, climbs talons up the wall
his throat snakes putrid groans "Wake UP Wake the Fuck UP"
I want to scream, purge my insides in the instant
he is yanked to the peep hole—
purgatory seared in his hell-pinched face.
He wants us to wake up or die, he is so close.
The dead man crawling the walls was real,
he has been in this room already, left for dead
flashed sober in the tub, strewn unconscious on the bed.
That nick in the wall, that stain low down on the bathroom door—all his.
Though they've taken him away, he's here now.
Phylinda Moore lives in Philadelphia and has slept in room seven-sixteen.
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