the hotel pennsylvania

the black tuxedos and the satin gowns

no longer stroll down this boulevard,

an occasional yellow cab now pulls up,

where once did chauffered limousines,

cocktails after theatre have become shared bottles of muscatel,

the glitz and glamor have long since dimmed

into shadows and broken dreams.

so much has changed,

in all these years,

not much is left the same,

the glory days, long gone,

but yet the neon sign keeps etching

her title in the night,

as if a loyal agent of a fading movie star,

he keeps calling out her name,

lest the world forget her fame,

the Hotel Pennsylvania,

still lingers on, she will not die,

"clean rooms, free tv and air",

she has tried and tried and tried.

once the doorman wore a scarlet coat and his hands wore pure white gloves,

and he tipped his hat to those who came

as he open gates of polished brass,

now he is no more than a button pushed and a disembodied voice,

to let the halfway decent in,

once the rooms were filled with momentary dalliances

of the rich with nothing else to do,

and travelers with well-packed steamer trunks

on trips from here to there,

but now

somehow, now,

the rooms are dead end streets

for those with nowhere else to go.

and here i sit, pen in hand

writing words on sheets of greying paper,

lost and lonely in this what-once-was world,

just me, the night, and the memories

as the light of that neon sign,

passes through my open window.




The End

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