Roosevelt Hotel
sitting hunched over a limp candle
like a homeless vagrant
warming his hands
over a rusty oil drum,
he’s drinking hard liquor
the kind that kisses the gullet,
single malt, smooth
like a rollercoaster ride
where your arse
barely touches the seat,
there’s a certain smell
about the Roosevelt Hotel
when the high rollers roll in,
loosely handling crisp dollar bills
and creased playing cards,
the card sharks like to hustle
performing a sly shuffle
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