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
-
Author:
Alfred Peyer (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 15th, 2021 19:41
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 59
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek, Trenz Pruca
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Comments6
I was enthralled Fred. Especially i felt his mind alter, you portrayed this with subtlety, and the piece of his rooms previous occupants. A man of much experience of life's loves, losses and lows.
The final verse came as a shock. A disappointment of sadness because i felt the character you portrayed and had empathy.
We, as readers, all bring our baggage of experience to each poem we read. Suicide is beyond my perception. I want it to remain so for i enjoy my solitary life and it's memories. I only state this to validate my comment about the ending.
Really enjoyed reading. You should tell more stories Fred.
Thank you so much d a! That character exists only in my imagination and I feel the same way as you about suicide. I guess a writer is like an actor and has to get into the "skin" of the character he/she is writing about.
Oh, btw, sorry I "shocked" you! 🙂
Wonderful write Fred, I as totally drawn into this.
Andy
Thanks Andy! I do appreciate your comment. It is very nice to hear that somebody was "drawn into it".
Eek, I shudder at the ending!
If it was not so serious - I tried that. I used the blunt edge of the knife. Doh!
Me knife glided across me pork chop - yummy!
Thanks orchie, you made my day! Even though I don't know you, only your writing, I don't think you would ever use a knife for that purpose. You might sing yourself to death though!
Yes lol. Or it may be - it would enough to tempt people to get out the knife, cos they hear me singing. The would want to use it on me though!
Brilliant!
in tone, in eloquence, in subtlety of temperament (I know you could have taken this to some wild corner's of that rooms shadowy fingers)..
you executed your theme and meaningfully blended imagery - wonderfully, keep them coming dear poet
a worthy dedication, to short story's: unquestionable master, staying true - all the way to mirroring, his grim ending
Thank you so much L.B.! Your comment is very kind and I appreciate it. I am in the process of writing a short story about the same subject matter. It will take some time to finish it, but it is fun.
That one got me in, Fred. A well textured yarn which evoked memories of several doss houses I've inhabited very briefly during various stages of my life. Authentic.
Ending a shocker - I wish he hadn't.
Thanks so much Dave! Maybe I can write something for you with a different ending. Maybe something where, after you finish reading, you ask: And then?
Got me there - I would! And I'd remind you 'till I found out....
I usually pass on reading lengthy verses, blame my attention span.
Captivating me, I just had to read this to the end,
When we reach that state of mind,
Poets words, can be very kind.
Thanks so much mohangupta, I do appreciate you reading to the end!
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