Hotel Exotica stands tall and square and white
against the brilliant blue backdrop of the Falmouth sky.
Two dull light bulbs illuminate
two wobbly stars, the remnants of the fading luxury
of twenty years ago, when the Hotel's white was brighter,
its windows cleaner, its stars more numerous- five-
adorning the proud red Exotica flags erect beside its golden gates.
The gates squeak now, and the palm trees that framed
the palatial pillars now stoop like old men, veterans standing
to attention in an empty courtyard. Only the golden eagle statue,
proud and dignified, remains intact, an out-of-place memory of
a five star Hotel, of affluent guests and to-die-for balls,
of opulence and splendour and crystal chandeliers,
and when I touch its hooked beak I hear the diluted sound
of a distant orchestra and ballroom dancers.
Mister Exotica stoops like his palm trees. Every morning
he polishes the regal bird with a blackened rag until it reflects
a face chiseled by time, engraved with runes of long-gone truth,
the hieroglyph of a handsome nobleman, proud owner of
a beautiful Hotel.
Hotel Exotica swallows him like an overbearing mother,
a reversed childbirth, a kindly entombment, a royal salute.
