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At the District Hotel

Jay Paine

__________

                                   We upgraded to the theme, 
                                   the expectation: superheroes, sex swings,

so when the door swung 
open we were less than thrilled, our room a less-than-private 

                                   locker room fantasy. Nine helmets lined the bench. 
                                   It’s dangerous to smash past all four bases 

all at once but we no longer wondered what we’d gotten 
ourselves into. Along with the shampoo & conditioner 

                                   the room came with complimentary ear plugs
                                   because here, sleep is a bed’s secondary purpose. 

Here, voices will not be silenced. 
Not until 4:00 a.m. 

                                   At 4:00 a.m. even the DJ must dream,
                                   never forgetting the Cotton-Eyed Joes. 

Never forgetting people pressed against patrol cars, 
                                                                    nightsticks between their legs—

                                   Cops beat them—            beat them on the back—

                                                                    —beat them, beat

                of the bass drop wonderland—
                                   the only distinguishable lyric— 

as people gathered around the pool 
for another night in the district.  

                                   Back at the room we examined the thrifted obelisk. |
                                   Too big for a butt. Someone must’ve been brave.

Then we ventured back to the bar. Under the second largest 
mirrorball in the Midwest, the puppy & fem boys grinned,

                                   & the go-go boys danced, their jocks bulging 
                                   with bills. We never found the dark room 

but joined a clubber at a poolside table. 
How do I get in on this? they asked, 

                                   then after silence & sip of beer, 
                                   Can I get in on this?

__________

Jay Paine, embracing his desire to push the boundaries of language and investigate his queer identity, moved from Logan, Utah to Las Cruces, New Mexico to pursue an MFA in creative writing. His poetry appears in Gyroscope Review, Roadrunner Review, Deep Wild Journal, among others.

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