Ryan Vine is the thirteenth poet chosen in this once-a-week yearlong survey of Minnesota’s poets and their work. The series is sponsored by Magers & Quinn Booksellers.
By Ryan Vine
June 26, 2006
Ryan Vine
Ryan Vine

Ryan Vine

Hangover, Sunday, 9 AM

and through the hotel lobby comes this girl,

she could be 10, could be twelve (who cares?),

her hair still wet from her morning swim;

it’s turned her red shirt redder in two blotches

on her shoulders and chest and she’s pushing

this luggage dolly, this empty luggage dolly,

one of its wheels missing and the other

three cry and scream as she slowly pushes it

across the golden-swirled carpet, across

the milky tile, slowly, importantly,

with the careful consideration of a ten year old,

her plastic flip flops squeaking in her-foot-sized puddles,

across the whole lobby; and now she’s banging it

into the wall, because the force of where the missing

wheel would be is throwing her occasionally

out of control, so she stops, but not really,

just fast enough to pull it backwards, or

push it forward even harder; now she’s slamming it

into other luggage dollies, trying to put it

in the room where they store other luggage dollies,

and coatless hangers clatter to the floor

like spent shells and some huge cannon, some wide,

dark mouth has spit you out right here.

Ryan Vine is assistant professor of English at the College of St. Scholastica. His first collection of poems, Distant Engines, winner of the 2005 Weldon Kees Award, is forthcoming from Backwaters Press.

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