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 The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 679 times
Written on 2015-03-21 at 20:01

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Wonderful Elle simply wonderful. I love your work and this one is special!


I had to read it over and over just for the enjoyment of the sheer beauty of this writing and the nostalgic feelings. An excellent write. Somehow, I felt this deeply.

jim The PoetBay support member heart!
You and Jenks are looking back today, and taking me with you. This is wonderfully written, conveying so much, with warmth and humor. The first line deserves a Pulitzer, the ninth deserves a second reading least we forget, and the third stanza makes me sigh. Altogether it makes me want to get a VW microbus and start the journey all over again.

Brilliant as always, Elle :-)
The theme of your poem captures the reader's imagination, I think.
Well written.