Union Hotel Poem by Scarlett Treat

It's down the street from somewhere,
on a by-pass going nowhere,
and all the abandoned people go there
to lose the hurts of a hard life,
or to kill their memories of strife
and 'what used to be'
with one last shot glass
or a black labled bottle of Jack.

The pot-holed street no longer feels the wheels
of the Cadillacs of the rich - -
maybe a wobbly wheel turns,
but it is only Lady Vera, the homeless bag lady,
pushing her shopping cart,
the one stolen from Dollar General or K-Mart.

Some doors gape on their hinges,
tilting drunkenly one direction or another,
while others lean jaggedly on their broken frames,
trying to stay upright in a building falling down.
Vacant, soulless eyed windows reflect the sun,
as empty as the glazed eyes of junkies,
reflecting the body still here, the soul gone.

The hotel clerk won't look up
as you plunk down your ten spot,
for he doesn't want to see you, or care...
Pay your ten dollars,
got your room and board for the night,
bedbugs guaranteed.
No one will bother you
for no one cares.
Spend a day - a week - a month,
as long as you pay.

Do you know anyone here?
No?
Well, that's good!
You don't want to know them...
And they don't want to know you,
For Union Hotel is a wickedly lonely place.

Scarlett Treat
July 20,2009
Copyrighted