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Date: Thu, 4 Aug 2005 12:00AM PDT)
From: Send an Instant Message "John French" <mosshead7@yahoo.com>
Subject: The St. Regis Hotel - New York
To: poetry@newyorker.com
 

 

The St. Regis Hotel - New York

 

Lit up like a jar full of

Lightening bugs

It's July

 

New York, New York

Is so alive

Eyes rolling, trains

Stretching along tracks -

Explosive lights, dimmed

Rooms - we're never alone

 

She had an elegant gaze

I felt her warm stare

She also had good

Confidence in her Halston dress

She must've been 55 to my 34

On my way to 35

 

The bartender knew

I'll have another vodka gimlet

Please. I had about five.

 

I was entertained by

Some people I didn't know.

Strangers talking for sport

Of a heroin dealer busted

Up stairs in one of the suites

With a confederate flag on the

Bed while meditating on top

With two .44 caliber pistols

Of Civil War era - antiques -

Six shooters w/ an eight-inch barrel

 

Apparently he was from New Orleans

And had a lucrative business in heroin

But because of greed he axed middlemen

Now in town to for the business himself

Too big of a fish to swim here

He was busted w/ his guns, heroin

The Confederate flag and his arrogance

 

This makes drunken rock stars look good

 

EveryDay Media - MyStrawHat.com

John A. Conte`  JR

 

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Poetry  By John Alan Conte`, Jr.
Copyright 2005
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or  otherwise, without prior written permission of John Alan Conte Jr.