He was checked in under the name Immortality,
Mr Immortality —

but on the vanity were the little capsules
of mouthwash and shampoo, a packet

with needle and thread,
and letters from his father, who was dead.

(And books to write,
and letters of instruction, to have read.)

He’s a valued guest at the Clarion,
at the Shelburn,

like others in this inferno
though I miss him most.

‘Time is a monster,’ he said
before calling down for another

hour. He had to spell his name
to the woman at the front desk.

‘I am mortality,’ I heard him say
between kisses I remember to this day.

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