1.
She doesn't check in, but sneaks. (There is no one
behind the front desk anyway.) She takes the stairs, slowly,
keeping close to the side, where the wood
bears her weight without peril.
It is a copper mine now, tapped out. Frozen radiators
hold the corners of guest rooms where the window glass
still grows fields of frost before the February sun.
Drafts like icy shards through the gaps in the frames.
Should've picked a room lower down, but then again, cops.
And the street, and real wind through broken panes.
And cops.
2.
At ninety-six, the old ghost is still pretty spry.
Still, too, the celebratory whiff of cigar, and brandy --
curfew be damned! -- who needs Spring Training
when he already smashes 'em right out of Whittington Park?
The game'll never be the same, Babe, so run
those stairs, man, masseuse on one arm and
the world on the other and
the whole empty place to echo back.
3.
Park Avenue is quiet now, and the sun replaced
by copper-colored streetlights,
softer by far, and safer.
Even the police won't be much of a threat this time of day.
But the splintery cold still pricks her
and she weighs the prospect of sleep against
the last half-inch of Sterno in the can.
And it's been days since she's slept indoors,
days since she even could
close her eyes
to the Park Police and thieves and raccoons.
She lights it, scoots it close to her pallet,
rests her head.
4.
Other occasions bleed over.
Reunions, a wedding by the spring-nymph fountain:
each has its own spirits.
Briefly, the Babe pauses, annoyed at the intrusion,
competition.
He glances over his throwing shoulder
at the nymph, gleaming in his 1918.
Nobody, he thinks, and starts back up the stairs.
On the third floor, a shade of Bugs Moran
pours a whiskey to toast the happy couple.
5.
When she arrives at the old hotel,
she doesn't check in, just enters.
She takes the staircase, slowly,
admiring as she goes the rich
brocades and polished mahogany.
She considers for a second going back down,
crossing the long lobby to stand
before the spring fountain.
But she is tired now, and the sprites
will always wait for her, after all.
On the fifth floor she finds her room
unlocked -- cover turned down already
but curtains open to the warm afternoon outside.
She hears laughter, and it catches.
She smiles. She will never see the ashes.
T. Thibodeaux Baar is a literature and creative writing instructor at the College of the Ouachitas where she also directs the Honors College. She has lived in Hot Springs for 25 years, and watched the hotel burn from her yard nearby.
Editorial on 02/28/2015