POEM: Gothia Towers

En route to the city where my father died,

half watching Dylan, half listening to the Fall,

the plane too hot, 

the bus too bright.

But I was too paranoid to sleep; 

vigilant for the next stop.

Not expecting the name in lights

of the hotel where he died

across the street from a theme park.

Glass glittering its welcome into the night:

the boogeymen just a building,

unaware it was the symbol for so much pain.

As the bus, unconcerned, drove on

and I was moved beyond it, at last.