The Hotel Is Lonely
Because You Aren’t There
And the day was charming, people
sprinkled over the avenues and boulevards,
the park full of carriage riders and flowers—
even the dirty statues of the once prominent
flashing an aura of loveliness.
And now at night I lie on the bed, reading
a book where on page 17 one character
says to another “I miss her.” Enough.
I close the book and turn off the desk light,
watching a few city lights rummaging
behind the curtain’s gauze, pulsating
like the stars and the sad hearts of the ghostly.
by Tim Suermondt
Editor’s Note: A great title and excellent personification make this poem a delight to read.