Doug Roy, Moon, Cut Paper
Hole in the Wall
In a pitch saloon bathroom,
a Kinkade above the toilet
helps me aim.
I shake off, shoot out
first knock, and find
the bottom of a fist,
where paper curls
under light’s weight
and itches my hip to the beat
of Highway to Hell:
a cavern if you karaoke
like the ninety year old
regular, his mouth
as wide as want,
what waits for him
reaching in to make room
for a room in a day
with a lovers hand,
a cold sill for people-watching,
and a warm one for after
they enter, fix the fireplace,
and fill all the holes
in the walls with sound.
______________
Liv Campbell