My style of prose poetry is an acquired taste. Not obscurely metaphorical enough to be poetry and too short and wordy to be a short story. Also, reading through the lucky published ones, every piece is from someone with an extensive publishing history already. When it comes to publishing a free magazine that doesn’t pay the writer to print their work it makes sense they’d opt for writers with a fanbase over little old me. So what can I do? I can continue to submit it to webzines and e-zines in the hope someone will pick it up one day or I can post it here now. Sure, I don’t get the coverage but at least it’s not rotting away somewhere because of the words ‘aspiring new writer’ are the only words that make up my bio. My short stories will continue to be submitted, over and over, but for this piece of prose poetry, it’s time to stand back and share it with you personally.
Hall 608 to 615
The expansive network of hotel halls stretching
away like well-ordered roots of a tree.
Bronze numbers adorning each stylish grey door.
Sounds as I pass from the individual stories
behind each finely dressed pine.
Voices and movement draped in misled privacy.
Softly clatter the empty plates and glasses
all askew upon my stubborn trolley.
Its wonky rear wheel knows the wall lays ahead.
A wall that surrounds a memory of what it used to hold.
Ignored by all except for me and my attentive ear.
I wish I couldn’t hear her; I wish she didn’t know I could.
A whisper of tattered cloth and broken nails in the bricks
pleading with my quick steps to halt.
The quicker rhythm batters my ribs from inside.
She calls me by my name from behind the chintzy paper
I can smell the moist mortar of her breath.
A homely warmth flees in panic from the hallway
I know not to stop but I cannot tell you why
and the wall now shudders as if mocking my spine.
That wonky wheel threatens to run away with me.
She sobs at me from the depth of her spreading-damp heart.
Yet I ignore her impossible words.
Wishing they were a trick of badly built acoustics.
The landing hits me like a plastic ribbon finish line
breaking over my chest, reminding me to breathe.
The wheel snaps back into line.
I hope secretly to myself that when I have children
their goading chocolate voices
won’t remind me of the girl inside the wall.