That was the year of hotel rooms

Bad judgment, some salesman with a model contract

In Prince George

And I was all about irony: a mini-skirt

Hair like a veil, but my home was the library

‍

My home was the library, not a cheap bedspread and

Some guy with a moustache saying, My wife can’t understand me

I had only been curious

In the dark, the yellow bedside lamp

Was damp and furious: my mini-skirt fell off

And the Vietnam vet in the next room cried: Don’t worry

We don’t carve up chicks

Personally

‍

God said—it was God’s voice on the radio—in the guise of

My school friend, Tom—a DJ—

God or Tom—said on the radio: Please call

So I leapt up, all reasonable and not confrontational

Not at all stoned, and I phoned

Dear Tom, wherever you are

I’m telling you now

Then I ran down the hall. The policeman who stopped

Me driving said I’d been going too slow. Oh  

‍

There was also the year of the knife, the year of the gun

The year when God’s voice whispered, again and again

What are you trying to do

Kill yourself? But this was the year of hotel rooms

When I looked into corners nobody swept and felt

Their pull; when I wore my hair like a pall

And didn’t know how lovely I was at all

‍