Hostel Negotiations
written by: Jordan Trethewey
@bizarre_quotes
I beat a stumbling retreat—
Celtic dance beats on George Street
after kissing a wooden Puffin,
not the cod I hoped
would innumerate me
another honorary Newfoundlander.
I totter in line,
need a submarine sandwich
bun to sponge me into sobriety.
The hostel smells—
newsprint and dry rot,
not that it matters
unfurling a footlong
in front of the common room TV.
Two fellow travellers return
early as well,
without food,
yet are hungry.
Sauced, I eat
while the twosome tear
at their own wrappers,
gnaw at one another’s lips.
Unsure of my reality,
I cannot distinguish
whether I’m casually viewing,
or witnessing porn.
The actors, as usual,
pay me no mind.
I’ve seen worse
while ravenously intoxicated.
Not being one to pass up
a storyteller’s wet dream,
I consider staying put,
but choose to forego
an awkward money shot,
in favour of salty doorstep air—
the opportunity to regale
others on the way in
with my revisions.
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