A poem by PHILIP CASEY
Everywhere there is muzak.
So I work to find a spot where I can read,
and settle on a seat outside the luxurious
basement gents. The muzak’s still here,
but softer, like the lights, and I spread out
my newspaper and gradually relax,
until some well-dressed sages hesitate before
entering the toilet, and rummage for change,
tossing it on an ancient, decorative plate.
I glare like a disturbed moose.
They mouthe apologies and rummage again
until soon, the antique plate is piled high.
I’m about to leave, sans loot, when the black wall
becomes elastic, and a small fleet of bicycles
struggles from the marble-mucous
to be born, and as they bounce, fully formed,
onto the corridor, I hop on one and in formation,
they carry me too bumpily up the stairs.
Then, whatever their mission,
as I dismount in time – my voice higher –
they disappear though the automatic door.
I turn to see a whoosh of water
at the foot of the basement stairs,
and it’s rising fast, as if in anger.
“The hotel is sinking, the hotel is sinking,”
the maids scream, though not quite in unison.
And yes, they are right. Already it is listing.
Philip Casey