PATINA

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.

 

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