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Killing time at the Hotel Panorama

The wind blows from the northeast
driving waves onshore
insistent spray confronts the walker
conscience pricked by stones.

Philosophies slosh in eddies swirl,
the dry leafed supertanker dreams
bob to alien rhythms.

I lie on the carpet
thousand-miled voices
roll over my hope
knees pricked by fiber strands
nose in the stale reminders of a thousand guests.

Illusions retreat from
salt tang remnants
future dies on drying seaweed.

Even the storm will be gone by midnight.

© 1999 John P. Nordin. Do not copy.

Last modified 5/23/99