woke on my 67th birthday
at Hollywood Roosevelt
where the mirror Marilyn haunts
is in storage
the day I checkd in
I passd Montgomery Clift's room
but didn't hear his bugle
later I peekd into the bar
where Victor Killian had too many
the nite he was murderd
the ghosts here are many
Johnny Grant lived & died here
& Todd Moore was a guest
Elizabeth Short walkd thru the lobby
where elderly Mack Sennett
sat alone for hours
John Carlyle workd the front desk
& Eleanor Powell told tales
to a dinner of cinephiles
in the Blossom Room
I sit in the lobby
listening to water bubble up
in the fountain
wondering how soon
I too will be a ghost
3 comments:
not too soon, okay
Wonderful poem.
Happy Birthday, looking most excellent!
Love the new work. Your 2010 travels have really produced some fine poem-age. And don't you dare become a ghost anytime soon.
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