MIDNIGHT AT THE ROXY

I thought I heard a child ask if God lived here –
- last night…
just a few blocks from Time Square
descending from the presidential suite of the Taft Hotel,
addressing an audience of 6,000.
Standing room only.
An army of ushers flanking both sides.
If he did…
the age of miracles has now ended
with the last thrash and crackle of the wrecking ball.
No entrepreneurial spirit could withstand such a faithless blow.

Even as I float,
blithe and unnoticed
into that opulent, oval behemoth
omnipotent in my observations,
winding toward each miraculous mezzanine
or dipping from one gilded balcony to the next,
spiraling dizzy past mock pulpits
to breathe in the ornamental pierced grilles.
Green faux marbre columns greet,
they seem to tumble toward my half lit consciousness…
unwitting spectre of a dream not even Samuel or Balaban could raise.

If only Ahlschlager had prayed for restraint,
or humility, instead of garish pride;
beyond fabled glitz to permeate,
then perhaps I might have awoken to make my witness
in tact,
and not as Gloria found her in 1961.
@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).