Few cats would wander into that little hotel
nor would a woman I might have looked for,
where the only sounds were of pigeons
outside the front door and the voices of drifters
sunk in overstuffed sofas in the open lobby
with talk of being writers, artists and rock stars
All the hopes I had hefted to that place
accumulated before me,
more than enough granite to build a temple
to worship self-doubt and despair
Each tower above the street was inscribed
with a famous name and I wandered below them
through the littered streets so late that night
only taxis clocked more miles
I want to remember it was raining,
the beer in the bar warm
and the beef bad
No, the piano bar was hopping
with young good-looking women,
the man on jazz piano knew
where he wanted to take us,
and the weather might have been clear
The names on the business cards
I found in my pockets the next morning
were the same as those on the skyscrapers
that hung so heavy over me,
and my memory of that night comes down
to mixed nuts in tiny dishes, bottle labels,
lonely strangers, days, seasons…
Ah, that’s it! Spring, Sunday night,
in the kingdom of rats and roaches