The hotel is vast and pink
squatting on a southern shore
grand old palm trees
shimmering waves of white heat.
I am running the burnished halls
that reek money
I am not naked
exactly but searching for my nightie.
Butlers in tuxedos are on the lookout.
I can’t get the elevator
to come for me
can’t remember which room I had;
utterly lost and out of ideas.
But I don’t cry, don’t give up,
just keep dashing around
in full frenzy,
the angry butlers closing in on me.
They don’t get me. I wake up.
Just in time to tell
the whole wretched tale to Y.
She listens, nods in her wise way
then goes to the kitchen to make coffee.
The paper says rain she says
and you’re not too old to dream.