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Hotel Atlantic

Timothy Resau

We’ll arrive in the November rain,
carrying suitcases packed with ancient photography.
We’ll arrive alone but somehow together—
with all our old forgotten friends,
who’re lost and need to be remembered:
- Oh, we be so lost ...
with antique thoughts in the autumn highway rain,
driving in constant middle-age pain toward the Atlantic—
across which we all once came,
carrying photo-albums filled with European reminders
of our losses and our gains—

We’ll be together and alone ...
we’ll be held captive like shadows within a new-age fear.
Caught holding the precise x-ray of our displaced lives,
like patients caught naked
in the frozen amber of a highway sign.

The old fashion nicotine haze of the November rain,
driving toward the Atlantic,
across which we all once came.
Most of our families are now behind, like buried memories
in the autumn cemetery of someone’s lost mind.

We’ll be going toward the Atlantic,
this November in the old fashion nicotine haze,
together but alone.
Going toward the Atlantic, the Hotel Atlantic
in the rain of memories together but alone with
the middle-aged pain of faded family snapshots,
across which we all came, together but alone
... in the rain of all the middle-aged pain.

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