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The Hotel Under the Sign of the Hotel’s time has come: just about to descend to table, as it’s been told…they’d heard voices up the stairwell, drafty appetites, and growls, bellhop’s bell going ding dong ding, the church of the frontdesk, its keyspanned communion; then, feet in lockstep, locked boot and heel stepping up the wide spiral, one flight, take a breather. Others say the tip had come from an obliging bird, some say a dove, flown in the window; a note left on the pillow in lieu of sweet nothing, again that nod or wink, the handshake of a bellboychick, the blush of a maid, as arranged. No loudspeaker, no softspeaker, no rustle official, an important announcement misspoken, misheard, even unmissed. Management’s bought off the regime long enough (sheltering foreign journalists, quote unquote independent observers, diplomats, ambassadors, obstreperous officials of every state making last appeals for nationals lost), but now it’s all about omega, about settling accounts: one moon of stay, roomservice every morning each night, a laundrytab, a shoeshine, and don’t forget to tip generous the turndown. Will that be cashiered, or corpsed. Downstairs a mensch in a uniform as tightly bespoke as a spiderweb, preyedover with phosphorescent stars and stripes of a madness seemingly specific only to the highestranking, sighs as if in warning to himself, takes care of their bill with a thick wad of currencies: bills ripped apart then stuck together again piecemeal with the sperm of the stallion, without any thought as to provenance or denomination, old sidelocks ironsided portraits, frazzled beards — then gets a receipt for his superiors, we all have them, even the best of us. Upstairs is still, almost timeless, with most scholars emphasizing the almost, not quite: none to make a run, to head to any embassy’s pearlygated guardhouse drive, ring the bell and stay to amnesty, bring the flowers or wine; there are none left, autonomies, and with the Garden fallen to ashes…there’s nowhere outside the ghetto, nowhere that’s not the ghetto, nowhere open, all’s walled, nowhere new, not even Palestein’s elite: and so Shalom to our brother Arab hordes converted, what nachas we’re shepping the schlep of our baggage to come over and visit, O how you’ve grown! Jerusalem the genital, generational jewel, kvell in peace…the Roses of Sharon risen again, we flock to you now as to honey or eligible sisters, what discounts might you offer, what deals might you make for your kind!