It was called,
“The Hotel.”
Like a childhood friend
known by one name.
The lobby exhibited signs of
artistic death. There were
overused red velvet chairs.
A couch without cushions.
Ceiling fans without life.
Strips of wallpaper peeling
Like a melting glacier.
Many have passed through
the thick wooden and
glass doors onto
black and white tiled
checkerboard floors
showing the wear of
time.
The radio speaks about
vacations far away.
No one listens.
Roger Singer 