Pantoum Gleaned from a Diane Arbus Dream
        From Notebook #1, 1959

The hotel is burning. All gorgeous and doomed.
Elevators golden like the sinking Titanic.
I know what I must save, so return to my room.
But when I get there I cannot find it.

Elevators golden like the sinking Titanic.
I need my camera—it is terribly pretty.
But I get to my room and cannot find it.
People come and go as the fire slowly

burns. I want my camera. It's terribly pretty—
cupids carved in all the ceilings, even
the fire that burns so slowly. In the eye
of the storm I find myself reeling

beneath all the cupids carved in the ceiling.
Who knows how soon this building will collapse?
In the eye of the storm I find myself reeling.
How long do I have left to photograph?

Who knows how soon this building will collapse?
I know what I must save, so return to my room,
hoping for more time to photograph
this hotel like my life, gorgeous and doomed.

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Copyright © 2021 Cathy Smith Bowers All rights reserved
from Asheville Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission