Two Poems by Nellie Hill

I can't sleep.
Every time I doze off, the traffic light outside
changes, and the cars screech to a halt
or start up and I wake up.
I can't read--
After an hour
I clench my fist, whispering
why didn't I stay home
where things are silent and familiar
and everyone sleeps the same hours I do.

But here!
In this motel,
sheets stiff and scratchy, air stuffy,
he lies beside me
smelling of wine, not bothered
by the traffic outside.
He snarls periodically,
"Will you shut up that whining."

This is how I always see him--on his terms--
noisy motels by traffic lights
and the sinister desk clerk downstairs.
Nothing falls in place.  I lie sobbing
by the man I love because
we are so alien.

He loves to watch himself
standing naked before the mirror
doing business on the telephone.
Each action is deliberate:
he bows and smiles while speaking
to his customers as if he's dealing
with himself.  His minor flaws
don't bother him, the pot belly,
the baggy chin, he looks right over them
to the powerful swagger he's developed,
the commanding sweep of his arm.

She loves to watch him.
She lies there on the bed,
her hands folded on the pillow
behind her head, and she smiles
at his act; and then she joins him,
her long skinny body next to his fat one,
the telephone between them.  He continues
talking, selling someone something,
while she imitates every bow in the mirror,
every sweeping motion.