Hotel Poem by Philip Nikolayev
Hotel
Time to recount the sparrows of the air.
Seated alone on an elected stair,
I stare as they appear and disappear.
Tonight the deck supports tremendous quiet,
although the twilight is itself a riot.
I'm glad I'm staying here, not at the Hyatt.
My pen, eye, notes, watch, whiskey glass and hell
all hang together comfortably well.
Pain is my favorite resort hotel
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/3/2024 3:19:46 PM # 1.0.0.1119
