The street is a throwback to a less critical age
Poor man's playground in the between wars thirties
It is like setting foot on the set of a cowboy movie,
Hotel billboards peel and sag in rows
The hotel is wind and watertight, but ageing
Rips in the paper run along the skirting
The keys are dispensed by a clutch of gnarled fingers
Like barnacles on a crab, her flashy jewels
The jaded carpets, pressed into service by decades of trippers
The treads ingrained with stains
Lampshades, circa 1960, hold a suspicion of spiders
The off white screens hang creased, in rucked suspension
Stairs are steep and narrow, claustrophobic
A single slice of turkey shivers on a plate
Beside three ghostly potatoes
Seaside hotels, off season
Go off quicker than a three week old banana
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great. Detailed description. I can almost see the place. I think I stayed there once.