A syringe in room 212
is lodged deep underneath
the cracked plastic vent
of the radiator,
beneath the window.
Don’t touch a syringe:
company policy.
So, visit housekeeping closet
in the basement
to get the kit,
the one with
biohazard written on it.
Tug rubber gloves.
Grab tongs.
Pick the syringe up,
and stash it in the bag,
the bag which has a color
brighter than any other color,
in all the rooms along the hall,
identical.
I clean them all, each day,
fifteen minutes apiece:
Scrub puke from the floor,
Shit from the walls.
These are the only variety.
This is housekeeping.
This means rent money.

I keep house, honey, lover
and come home to less color
to the hello you forgot
to the person you’re not
lost in the window screen
daytime fantasies
this is your routine.
you’re stuck in the same room too.