In the Old Hotel
–for the Majestic, 1893-2014
1.
She doesn’t check in, but sneaks. (There is no one
behind the front desk anyway.) She takes the stairs, slowly,
keeping close to the side, where the wood
bears her weight without peril.
It is a copper mine now, tapped out. Frozen radiators
hold the corners of guest rooms where the window glass
still grows fields of frost before the February sun.
Drafts like icy shards through the gaps in the frames.
Should’ve picked a room lower down, but then again, cops.
And the street, and real wind through broken panes.
And cops.
2.
At ninety-six, the old ghost is still pretty spry.
Still, too, the celebratory whiff of cigar, and brandy—
curfew be damned!—who needs Spring Training
when he already smashes ‘em right out of Whittington Park?
The game’ll never be the same, Babe, so run
those stairs, man, masseuse on one arm and
the world on the other and
the whole empty place to echo back.
3.
“Once Al Capone decamped for Arlington 4, the Majestic welcomed Bugs Moran.
Although the two were sworn enemies, no violence broke out between them
as they trod the neutral ground of Hot Springs.”
4.
Park Avenue is quiet now, and the sun replaced
by copper-colored street lights,
softer by far, and safer.
Even the police won’t be much of a threat this time of day.
But the splintery cold still pricks me
and I weigh the prospect of sleep against
the last half-inch of Sterno in the can.
And it’s been days since I’ve slept indoors,
days since I even could
close my eyes
to the Park Police and thieves and raccoons.
I light it, scoot it close to my pallet,
rest my head.
5.
Other occasions bleed over.
Reunions, a wedding by the spring-nymph fountain:
each has its own spirits.
Briefly, the Babe pauses, annoyed at the intrusion,
competition.
He glances over his throwing shoulder
at the nymph, gleaming in his 1918.
Nobody, he thinks, and starts back up the stairs.
On the third floor, a shade of Bugs Moran
pours a whisky to toast the happy couple.
6.
When she arrives at the old hotel,
she doesn’t check in, just enters.
She takes the staircase, slowly,
admiring as she goes the rich
brocades and polished mahogany.
She considers for a second going back down,
crossing the long lobby to stand
before the spring fountain.
But she is tired now, and the sprites
will always wait for her, after all.
On the fifth floor she finds her room
unlocked—cover turned down already
but curtains open to the warm afternoon outside.
She hears laughter, and it catches.
She smiles. She will never see the ashes.
She never sees whatever comes next,
but always the Majestic.
***
This poem is the first in my marathon of poems (plus 3.8) for Tupelo Press’s cool fundraising project 30/30. You can view the poems I and the other “runners” submit every day during the month of March, at
http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/.
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LouLou (the main monkey)
