They're calling you home
So you turn off the phone
And just let it lie dead
In the center console of the rental car
And drive a hundred miles west
To the oceanside
Check in to a Shilo Inn there
A half-mile from the shoreline
But there's a paper bag caught
In the Oregon grape
By the hotel wall, and you're wondering
Is this all a big mistake
You head down to the water
Fists balled in your sleeves
Hood drawn against the wet wind
Just looking for some peace
The cold fog burns your skin
And the cold air hurts your teeth
Still, your heart gets light
Mounting the last rise
But the ocean and the sky
Put up a unified front
One blinding wall of white
A real inscrutable one
Burst through the door
Throw your coat on the floor
Sit a minute on the bedspread
Faint queasy scent of cigarettes
You run yourself a bath
You fumble at the fixtures
Fingers too numb
To gauge the temperature
And with your glasses off
You could almost swear you see
The outline of the Virgin and Child
In the mildew
On the ceiling tile
And the bathwater slides
Hot like defeat over you
And you stare up at the stain
And say a sour little word or two