HOTEL WARSAW

In a room of gold, I am
smoking.

The parade of beautiful
boys and women

have long since gone.
Along with the letters

and packets
of photographs.

Yesterday
G. read my cards:

tarot, through the white, pink
static of the television set.

Child, he said,
you are a bone.

You must leave
everything,

burn it all down
to the ground.

In the Polish black and white film
I sit inside the parked white sedan,

disguised as a boy
in oversized black

slacks, white tank, and pale pink
satin bomber jacket.

My …

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