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Hotel Krupa Lounge
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The desk is vacant. She slumps in—damp, sad
from an old bop tune that never leaves her head.
She looks for mail. Sees none. Hears one rogue note—
a piano. Then she feels she’s not alone.
Elevator buttons get pushed. The mean guy
from three. A second note that almost sighs—
a low C, she thinks, coming through the wall.
They climb in the small cage. He smells of salt
and fish. It’s a waltz tune, low keyed. The whole
ride up she knows it. Wants to sing it slow
and blue. Guy steps off, uneven, at three.
She waits for her floor, punches L just to see
how long that wisp of a song can play on.
It circles her from four all the way down.
She leans her ear to the wall just beside
gold mail boxes. It’s there. She feels a slight
vibration from a bass key, Hears a click—
a foot tap, a cigarette getting lit
somewhere within plaster. It’s “Danny Boy”
now, very soft and slow. Another guy
enters. The pipes stop calling. She believes,
for now, at least, a hidden lounge, unseen,
unseeable, lives in a room with no door.
Maybe next to the shaft. Someone performs—
Only at night? Never noticed. Who else
hears keys—that Bill Evans touch. A bell
rings. Elevator’s back. The dark notebook man
walks out. Doesn’t lift his eyes. His hand
writing, writing all the time. Can’t keep a beat.
She’ll ride down and up all night. She won’t sleep.
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Mark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses. An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He can be found reading his poetry here: https://www.youtube.com/ @markj.mitchell4351.
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North of Oxford 