Paradise Motel

Millions were dead; everybody was innocent.
I stayed in my room. The President
Spoke of war as of a magic love potion.
My eyes were opened in astonishment.
In a mirror my face appeared to me
Like a twice-canceled postage stamp.

I lived well, but life was awful.
there were so many soldiers that day,
So many refugees crowding the roads.
Naturally, they all vanished
With a touch of the hand.
History licked the corners of its bloody mouth.

On the pay channel, a man and a woman
Were trading hungry kisses and tearing off
Each other's clothes while I looked on
With the sound off and the room dark
Except for the screen where the color
Had too much red in it, too much pink.

by Charles Simic

Comments (1)

AFRAID To email my poem to Charles Simic, but I do. To watch his eyes examine a bike with broken training wheels kid bleeding from a fall. Too much to fathom. But there in Santa’s red thread under the tree a gift wrapped beauty To: Bob. Angels hover closer. Inside the blue box is Charlie’s gift: a diamond sculpture of his newest poem, Deleted.