In a Hotel in Riga

Poem

Dag T. Straumsvåg

Late one night the phone rings, but no one is there, no one on either end. It’s as if

conversations broken off years ago have suddenly started up again on their own, or

those that went to the wrong numbers have finally figured out where they went wrong

and now make the right phones ring. But no one answers, and the conversations are

sucked back into the lines, colliding, getting mixed up with incoherent discussions,

disastrous misunderstandings. This time it’s for me, but I’m spending the night in a

different hotel, sleeping like a log on a waterbed. Down in the depths a goldfish noses

around in the dream sludge, and on the wall blinking neon frames the faceless portraits

of retired civil servants.