I Love Paris Poem by Ronald Baatz

I Love Paris



I LOVE PARIS

Now that the motel is up for sale
I'm constantly dreaming of living
someplace else. I have a list of options
which I often find myself dwelling on.
Which is exactly what I am doing on this
dull Saturday night at the end of winter,
when not a soul in the world seems to
have any desire to stay a night in this town.
On the little cassette player Charlie Parker
is flying through five minutes and ten seconds
of I Love Paris. This is the tape I usually play
on such nights, the one of Parker playing from
the Cole Porter songbook. But
to get back to my list of options, it is
there on the table next to the typewriter.
The list consists of only five places,
ranging from the east coast to the west,
and with red pencil I write below each
positive and negative remarks.
The positive remarks are not many,
the negative add up quickly. But
my dump here at the motel will soon
be no more, and whether I like it or not
the open road will be before me and
I'll be forced to go one way or another.
And with the number of possible buyers
coming around it's obvious that
it won't be long before this motel is sold.
Last weekend an old Chinese couple
inspected the place from top to bottom.
I know their interest was a serious one.
I heard the woman tell her husband that
my dump would be the perfect place
for the laundry room.

Woodstock/1987

Friday, October 10, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: autobiography
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