Long Ago Dream of a Bad Love Affair by Roger Jones

Because the hotel, whose door
you approached in dream, was drab,
shabby, its neon light fluttering,
you gathered this meant your heart
took no pride in this affair. The entrance
button outside seemed worn out,
malfunctioning. You pressed and pressed.
No response. But when the handsome
visitor who came up next tried it,
and was let inside at once, you did what
dreamers do, and followed him.
Alone in the big lobby, which smelled
of old cigars and rumbled with the low
profane din of old men arguing money,
you saw no immediate way to go
but sensed somehow the stranger had taken
a narrow stairway up to where she was.
You divined your way as well, up steps
to a small hallway and two doors, both
hers. You knocked on the first -- no answer.
Tried to enter, but the way was blocked
by a heavy iron bed frame (just as the bed
had blocked the way for the two of you in life).
So you went to the other door and rang
the bell. She answered, wearing a worn
silk kimono drawn up in front to hide her
nakedness. Smiling tiredly, her face
wan, lined, gray, she let you in, asked you
to stay for coffee. But from the other
room (whose door you’d tried), you heard
springs creak and caught a glimpse
of the young man from the doorway,
shirtless now, rousing from sleep in bed.
She asked you to stay longer, but you
declined. Her offer meant nothing --
just chit-chat over a cup, beside
a window, quiet talk on a gray
morning, the two of you little more
now than acquaintances, with nothing
in common. Least of all love.

THE OKLAHOMA REVIEW Volume 8 \| Issue 1 \| Spring 2007	Poetry
Print version Janet Butler Death in the Mountains LeAnna Covalt A Few Days after Your Fiftieth Birthday Pagosa Springs Roger Jones Coming Attractions, 1960 Jason W. Selby Love in the Time of Colonialism Noel Sloboda Surfaces Cuts Uncruel Salesman of the Quarter tolbert ghosts laughter Anne Whitehouse Blessings IX Curses II	Roger Jones Long Ago Dream of a Bad Love Affair Because the hotel, whose door you approached in dream, was drab, shabby, its neon light fluttering, you gathered this meant your heart took no pride in this affair. The entrance button outside seemed worn out, malfunctioning. You pressed and pressed. No response. But when the handsome visitor who came up next tried it, and was let inside at once, you did what dreamers do, and followed him. Alone in the big lobby, which smelled of old cigars and rumbled with the low profane din of old men arguing money, you saw no immediate way to go but sensed somehow the stranger had taken a narrow stairway up to where she was. You divined your way as well, up steps to a small hallway and two doors, both hers. You knocked on the first -- no answer. Tried to enter, but the way was blocked by a heavy iron bed frame (just as the bed had blocked the way for the two of you in life). So you went to the other door and rang the bell. She answered, wearing a worn silk kimono drawn up in front to hide her nakedness. Smiling tiredly, her face wan, lined, gray, she let you in, asked you to stay for coffee. But from the other room (whose door you’d tried), you heard springs creak and caught a glimpse of the young man from the doorway, shirtless now, rousing from sleep in bed. She asked you to stay longer, but you declined. Her offer meant nothing -- just chit-chat over a cup, beside a window, quiet talk on a gray morning, the two of you little more now than acquaintances, with nothing in common. Least of all love.	Home Nonfiction Fiction Poetry Contributors Staff and Guidelines Past Issues Links Cameron University
	The views expressed in The Oklahoma Review do not necessarily correspond to those of Cameron University, and the university's support of this magazine should not be seen as an endorsement of any philosophy other than faith in -- and support of -- free expression. The content of this publication may not be reproduced without the written consent of The Oklahoma Review or the authors. © 2007 The Oklahoma Review