Art Deco

Art Deco


The hotel is vast and pink

squatting on a southern shore

grand old palm trees

turquoise water

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.