Blues Hotel by Sterling Warner

Two Jacksons or

Four sawbucks

Up front—$40.

No credit cards, no I.D.;

Beyond, beneath,

Battered neon lights

The Blues Hotel

Weathered time’s ravages

Struck cords of commerce as

Hookers dispense advice

Like ATM machines—

Service for a price.

Soiled linen, wafer thin sheets,

Feel and look like pillow drool on flax

A ceramic throne, standard toilet,

Sits on splintered two-by-fours,

Wax ring resembling a smashed plum

Sinking like a rock in thick mud when seated.

Yellow halos ripple over textured ridges,

Plaster summits, on the

Sparkling stucco ceiling where

Snow seeps through the roof

Dripping tears into a closet

That seldom houses luggage.

Here on Colfax, cops draw down on

Wendy’s customers—mistake naive

Travelers as “King’s Table” players—

Denver’s whorehouse clientele,

Crack den magistrates.

One’s next-door neighbors’

Fists pound paper-thin walls like

Meat tenderizers pummeling flesh or

Jack hammers cracking concrete;

Rattling door handles twist, turn

Voices chant incantations, grunt outside

Demand immediate admittance—

Ready to fix a need, a place to

Tie down before daylight resumes

Kickin’ flop house reality,

The Blues Hotel’s legacy, above,

Below, and on all sides of every room.

An award-winning poet, author, educator, Sterling Warner enjoys writing, fishing, boating, and hosting/reading at open mics. Widely published in literary magazines, journals, and anthologies such as Anti-heroin Chic, Gleam, and Synchronized Chaos, his poetry/fiction collections include: Rags & Feathers, Without Wheels, Edges, Serpent’s Tooth, Flytraps, Cracks of Light, Halcyon Days, Abraxas (2024), and Masques: Flash Fiction & Short Stories.