The Hotel knows.

The Hotel knows.

Lavender scented breath is exhaled onto 27th.
You are ushered into its darkened maw.
For this edifice, another morsel, swollen with hubris of past experience.

Crisp-edged Ace, deftly dealt – guarantor of swift passage through the carmine hued liminal space.
Consumed quickly by the elevator, James doses you with familiar words, release for thoughtful digestion by the loops.

The blur commences.
Carefully contrived stratagems are dashed.
The Hotel has you.

Maid and Porter stun.
Their poisonous game of keep-away, tonight becomes a slapstick.
You stifle a laugh and crack an absolutely uncouth grin, safely anonymous.

Bodies press in that other bar.
The churn positions only you as witness.
Gazes fix.
The Goddess sheds her pantomime tears for peels of maniacal laughter.

The Nurse, solemn with her charges.
Those invisible and the petrified.
Yet, tonight, when her very limb rebels against its owner – there is playfulness in its wandering and conniving.

At the end, you are disgorged.
Mentally, marrow drained.
Metaphysically, stoked for the next sacrifice.

The Hotel knows what you need.