SECOND NIGHT AT THE ANCIENNE BELGIQUE:
Awake in a sea of crisp white linen, sipping water in the dark
to the music of drunks glass smashing & howling in the narrow
cobbled streets below my window. The woman at the breakfast desk
smiles & pouts, asks for my room number. I wonder how many times
she’s hit on daily, who’s daughter she is that’s home somewhere
hoping she’s ok. It rains, we drag our bags to the bus, laughing,
& CD’s by Sleater Kinney, whose posters have haunted this tour.