Exchange

I slowly count change at the register
like a child sent to the grocery store.
What is this one worth?
The woman does not smile
her hand is out and she sighs.
I crack jokes, encourage friendship
with people I'll never see again.
Where is the bathroom?
Where do I pay? What is this called?
Did I get it right?

Yesterday I put a lamp on my bedside
to dim the florescence.
I opened my package of bedding,
my packages of important papers.
Doors stay closed, the walls blank beige.
Gray days and misspellings,
countless faux pas.

I try to level. This is not what I
am used to. My daydreams,
real dreams, excluded this.
My unfamiliarity is losing luster.

But hidden beneath mossy bricks,
decaying leaves: hiding places
of ancient snails. And walking
through city blocks: castles.
I stop, mouth open and arms dropped.
Older than anything I've seen.
The same as things I've dreamed.