He was checked in under the name Immortality,
Mr Immortality —
but on the vanity were the little capsules
of mouthwash and shampoo, a packet
with needle and thread,
and letters from his father, who was dead.
(And books to write,
and letters of instruction, to have read.)
He’s a valued guest at the Clarion,
at the Shelburn,
like others in this inferno
though I miss him most.
‘Time is a monster,’ he said
before calling down for another
hour. He had to spell his name
to the woman at the front desk.
‘I am mortality,’ I heard him say
between kisses I remember to this day.