I.
Light spills into the hotel room
like ill-prepared lemonade from
the sky’s 5-cent stand, the one
all the hung-over grown-ups
have been trying to avoid.

Orlando blinks,
opens his eyes drearily,
dreamily—is he acting? It’s impossible
to tell. Some model has twisted
the blinds open, her twig fingers
rubbing together like tiny attempts
at fire. Bones and bra asks if
he fancies another go.

Diva dives face-first into blow,
not waiting for an answer,
leaving the kind of snotty bloodsmear
on the coffee table that more naïve help
might confuse for ketchup.

A robe, a kiss,
a card dismissed.
A door shut for the adorable.

II.
Orlando, alone,
has mastered the telephone,
demanding room service not
rudely, but sans menu and
in a way that winks and says
If you don’t fuck this up
it might just be worth your while.

Thoughts of brunch dance
around deer eyes like heathens;
ears perk up exactly as you’d expect
from someone named after Mickey
Mouse’s hometown. Comics receive
most of the attention.

Paper is splattered with syrup,
stuck back together in order.
Full—never satisfied—Orlando trots
to the water closet to cheerily
carry out the three esses.

His shit smells of cinnamon
and ambition.

His body glistens.

————

Evan Allgood is currently chipping away at an MFA degree in Screenwriting at Georgia College & State University. He originally hails from Northern Virginia, but is probably more likely to wind up in Atlanta or Austin after graduation.