Hotel Royale
She feels like a cat playing saxophone,
her world is strung tight but jazz is there
it is always there, in the early morning mist
and the evening fog, when her lights
only work on dim and she walks home
past the war memorial, far too grandiose
but of an era, where the first slaughters
of man made killing machines took place
and genocide was on the horizon.
Perhaps she will be a fiddle playing cat
but that seems too prosaic, maybe
a bass player, or chopsticks on the black,
manoevering across a chess board.
She likes sequence and patterns,
adding shapes in the margins of her life.
Like the bored man in a kilt smoking a fag
outside the Hotel Royale; she passed him
in her bug, sky blue but the roof still up,
there is a cold wind today and his smoke
dissipates as soon as he blows, he looks cold.
She would like to jump purring from the roofs,
the ones she used to see outside her window
in the arrondissement, when the light footed
lover took the stairs two by two, she could
hear the tread and the dread and excitement
of her lover returning, his breath and clothes
smelling of linseed, cigarettes and stale scent;
they would wrap themselves beneath a blanket
and he would rub her feet between his
making shadows in the pink draped lamp.
Maybe she will wrap her feet on a cold day,
sip from a long stemmed glass and perhaps
when the eclipse finally happens in that space,
she will waste a moment or too and touch her neck
where the lingering kiss was placed.
She feels like a cat tapping on the wooden boards,
watching as decaying christmas trees are lined in the street,
passing the glitter, the dross and the drab,
seeing what is special, tasting and touching,
past the memorial, the man with a fag,
waving at flags as they fly from the Hotel Royale.
Poetry by Elle
Read 794 times
Written on 2015-03-21 at 20:01
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