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 …
