Did I dream room seven-sixteen
covered in the Empire State Building's shadow,
you noticed hours before your departure?
We turned the lights off, you snapped a picture. I looked,
thought it would be absolutely maddening to live at the top,
bathed in so much light.

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.

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Phylinda Moore lives in Philadelphia and has slept in room seven-sixteen.