a poem about the artmore hotel

I’m sitting in a room
in the Artmore Hotel.
The room never lost
that dead flower smell
the plumbing thumps and shudders
like doomsday’s own bell
the water’s ten dollars a bottle.

I’m missing someone
in the Artmore Hotel
there’s a gloom in her
absence which will not dispell
She grew up in Texas,
just north of Terrell
but that ended when she went to college.

There’s a thick rain falling
down West Peachtree Street
Without her I’m
completely incomplete.
the footsteps above tap out
the Bonaparte’s retreat
up the third floor stairway above me.

I wondering in my room
at the Artmore Hotel
what does the future hold
for a bearded southern belle
and a lapsed Christian Scientist –
don’t tell me time will tell
for I will trade you cold comfort for knowledge.

14 Aug This entry was published on 08/14/2015 at 1:00 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.