The wind respirates down
the hall of the abandoned hotel, contours the spackle and cracks in the wall. If you could see the stains where the people were.
Assembled floor by floor above the city yet it does not rise.
If it were a child
you would say what bad posture, always slumping over, especially when you
weren’t looking.
The hotel itself recollects nothing except
what others leave. There is afternoon light
through the lead windows that turns
what’s left of the carpet white. Not
much occurs at night, save a few birds
that alight on the sills and
spill shit down the façade.
They say it was designed by a black
man who never stayed there.
Meaning he was not allowed.
The first was Lena Horne
whom the crowds came
to see—they ordered drinks
and fell into the evening.
And when they woke
in the morning beneath the
birds-of-paradise,
it could have been almost
anywhere.
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