mineral lit mag
  • Home
  • About/Submissions
  • Masthead
  • Featured Poets Series
    • 3 poems by Chris Prewitt
    • 3 poems by Taylor Byas
    • 3 Poems by David Hanlon
    • 3 poems by Bailey Grey
  • Issues
    • Issue 1
    • Issue 1.5: Hozier-inspired
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 3: Recovery
    • Issue 3.5: Lana Del Rey
    • Special Summer Solstice Prose Issue
    • Issue 4.1
    • Issue 4.2
    • Still Standing
  • Home
  • About/Submissions
  • Masthead
  • Featured Poets Series
    • 3 poems by Chris Prewitt
    • 3 poems by Taylor Byas
    • 3 Poems by David Hanlon
    • 3 poems by Bailey Grey
  • Issues
    • Issue 1
    • Issue 1.5: Hozier-inspired
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 3: Recovery
    • Issue 3.5: Lana Del Rey
    • Special Summer Solstice Prose Issue
    • Issue 4.1
    • Issue 4.2
    • Still Standing
TRAVELLING


 
                        You check into the hotel again.
                        Your room is an awkward L-shape,
                        the wallpaper now mint green.
                        It makes you nauseous. You asked
                        for a double but this room has
                        infinite extra beds around
                        the corner. You take your glasses off.
 
                        You search for the door, tapping
                        at the puce wallpaper for an echo.
 
                        You are in the lift, now in the bar,
                        ordering a double whiskey. No ice.
                        The corridor starts to descend.
 
                        You whistle. You never left your bedroom.
                        You are lying in the bathtub, clothes on,
                        sitting on the bed, staring at the
                        mustard wallpaper. You clink the ice
 
                        around the glass and ask the bartender
                        for another, it's been a long week.
                        He nods. Pours out a half pint of cider.
 
                        Your glasses are resting on the bathroom
                        sink, by your toothbrush. You reach for them
                        and are pressing the button for the lobby
                        but it doesn't light up. In the courtyard,
 
                        a tropical garden is wreathed in sunshine.
                        You are lying on the bed, the bath, the sticky
                        carpet. You are staring at the violet wallpaper
                        in this oval room. You’re forgetting something,
 
                        you’re sure. The receptionist hands you a key


David Ralph Lewis is a poet and short story writer based in Bristol, UK, When not writing, he enjoys dancing badly at gigs and attempting to grow vegetables. His first chapbook, Our Voices in the Chaos, was published by Selcouth Station in October 2019. You can follow him at www.davidralphlewis.co.uk
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