a wayside
By John Jordan Olivar
a calm white inn with guest houses
on the way north, I’d known
a shortcut there from memory
now from another starting point
I find it anyway, a staggering bill
in some other name
still in the room
I’ll see it as a joke
that same day
she has her own recurrent dream
of the artist’s space at a destination
once real, and no one there as well