Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun:
But sun it is not, when you-say it is not;
And the moon changes, even as your mind.
What you will have it nam'd, even that it is;
And so it shall be so.
------- IV, v. The Taming Of The Shrew.

The sign hanging on the hotel door says:
"Maid, Please Make Up This Room. "

She stands before it, knowing
about the unmade bed, the film of dead skin
and hair in the tub, white towels on the floor.
This is a day like other days,
full ashtrays, bars of wrapped soap.

But today, she looks at the door
and says "No, not this emptiness.
Not this time, not again."
Cleaning up after another
one night on business or holiday stop over.
Is this a life?

She makes up the room
differently with her mind
so that when she reverses the sign
the day changes, even as her thoughts
resolve into images:
a man pushed up against the pillows,
a woman riding him as if crossing
a long desert on a horse, beads of sweat
down her naked back, her feet
coiled like snakes, restless in the hot, Mexican sun.
Two whose mouths are so full of each other,
they can not speak, or be disturbed.