He paid for two nights with his last fifty
hidden away in his otherwise empty wallet
the gallon of cheap red weighed heavily
in the brown paper bag, stuck between
a dog-eared copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s
Tamerlane and Other Poems by a Bostonian
one of only 50 copies printed long ago
he had found it in a thrift store and knew
was probably worth a lot of money but
the young blond sales girl did not have a clue
apparently she was more into Japanese comics
and his notebook which was not worth anything
to anybody anywhere except to himself
the room was not as bad as he had imagined
fairly clean hardwood floor and curtains
which had seen much better times
the bulb flickered a few times before
it finally decided to throw out some light
the lumpy mattress sagged when he sat down
but he did not care, it would do
he carefully and lovingly took out Poe’s book
grabbed the gallon, unscrewed the cap
held it up to his mouth with a practiced arm
the wine flowed pleasingly down his throat
but did not do anything to his head
getting drunk now took more than wine
he pulled the lonely chair in front of him
placed his notebook on the tattered seat
licked his last and short pencil
searched for an empty page and began to write
words poured out of him in furious activity
only interrupted by the rhythmic
movement of the gallon of wine and
the occasional stop with poised pencil
the room receded with reality fading
into the universe of his imagination
the place where time ceased to exist
where the laws of nature did not count
the sphere of a writer’s mind
much later with a streetlight peeking
silently and forlornly through the window
lying quietly on the lumpy sagging bed
he thought about all the previous occupants
imagined a young couple furtively making love
a salesman resting his feet after a day of walking
a woman with child hiding from her abusive husband
a husband cheating on his wife with his girlfriend
he wondered about what the walls could tell
about the secrets, expectations, dreams, and loves
the pains, disappointments and maybe horrors
hiding unseen in every pore of the creaking floor
humanity reduced to shadowy hotel room memories
while sleep played an elusive game with him
a game he knew would take a while to win
he tenderly and carefully caressed Poe’s book
the lines flowing across his mind behind closed eyes
he felt attached to and at one with the great poet
lost in the grandeur and enormity of the past
he closed his eyes opened his mind to the beauty
of the written word, the construction of sentences
dreaming that he too would be published
that he too would be famous but
resigned to the improbability of his dream
the reality of a second-rate writer and poet
stranded in a crappy third-rate hotel room
the knife glided effortlessly across his wrists
maybe death would bring the fame he craved
there was no funeral, no eulogy, no mourners
Poe’s book, his wallet and his note book were buried with him