The
Butler Model of Tourism
I come back here year after year my
black valise with a busted zipper
spring-shot lobby divans drained of color
to press crisp bills into Monte’s hand
come up for air from the tunnel of
his thread bare uniform then ease
myself down on a sagging mattress
to wait for the clatter of ancient bones
his creaking cart and scuffling feet to
recede into absolute silence down
the dimly lit hall broken only by a spate
of conversation between the couple
I can just make out in the water
stained fresco above my bed
the two of them lost in a heated row
as if I can’t hear their bald appraisals
shockingly frank in this flocked walled room
with musty corners and milky windows
disagreeing only on the degree of my
progression through the dismal stages of
“The
Butler Model of Tourism”
the man making a half-hearted case for
Rejuvenation, the woman straddling the
thin line between Stagnation and Decline.
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