My room should be dark but instead glows red,
Bordello red when it should be graveyard black.
The smoke detectors excessively bright running light
Tells me it is working, working to keep me awake.
The gilt trappings in The Art Deco hotel room,
In the opulent Art Deco hotel
(curiously built during the dark Depression)
Bounce the red light about, assisting the fire alarm
In keeping me awake, abetted by rattles and
Bangs from the other glowing
Art Deco rooms in the Art Deco hotel.
And the bed squeaks.
The lightest shifting of my ever more tired bones
Produces a squeak or a creak surely heard by others
Lying in their glowing red Art Deco hotel rooms.
You and I, we couldn’t make love here
Without squeaking and creaking our way into the
Semi slumber dreams of the other guests in the Art Deco hotel
Left to wonder whether we were the sounds of yesteryears’ passions
Or whether we were in the midst of adding layers
To the immortal hauntings of the Art Deco Hotel.