I thought I was going so far away, but everyone has followed. My knuckle just caught a man on the side of the head as I rushed down the staircase. It's former U.S. President George Herbert Walker Bush. Sure, he says that's okay and smiles, but who else is watching? My old boss Anne sneaks me into the better hotel. Now I can get those mini bagels I was so excited to share with everyone. A shiny cart, cloth napkins over little baskets. But whoops! I have eaten all but three. I didn't want to want them all to myself. Now the boy I yearn for is angry to see me. I’m waiting in a sleepy room. Outside, rhythmic hammering. I sent two texts. I knew they'd make no difference. No matter how clever. No matter how many perfect words.
Jenn Koiter’s poems and essays have appeared in Smartish Pace, Barrelhouse, perhappened, Ruminate, and other journals. She lives in Washington, DC with three gerbils named Sputnik, Cosmo, and Unit. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram: @jennkoiter.