John Philip Drury : poème de job à l'hôtel

J'aime beaucoup ce poème de John Philip Drury  que l'ai lu hier dans l'envoi courriel de l'American Life In Poetry,540, auquel je suis abonné.

Motor Lodge 

“So this is it, experience,” I thought,

lugging tin buckets from the ice machines

to rooms of real adults with cigarettes,

mixed drinks in plastic cups, and proffered coins.

I reached out for their blessings, but the tips

were nothing next to rumpled, unmade beds

at four in the afternoon, women in slips

and men in t-shirts while the TV played.

Down in the laundry room, I counted sheets,

stunned by the musk that vanished in the wash,

and balled up soggy towels that down the chutes

exploded in bins. Before the evening rush,

avid and timid for what I glimpsed at work,

I left, hanging my gold vest on a hook.