Ritz-Carlton Paper

One out of many as I sit alone.

So many coming, or so many going.

The room is circular but hardly a circle.

 A hall way or a portal to happiness or freedom to get away or come.

It makes the circular room special and not a circle at all.

Orange hat, blue hat. Lucky or not.

 I’m not the lucky one sitting in a square in a circular room.

 Or simply is everyone lucky, they go or come.

 Happy or sad would be asking the same question.

This man is special, different than everyone else.

Blue again, another walks by dressed in blue.

So many lines, so many different ways.

Very different shades of black and white are constantly being crushed as different shapes and sizes of similar feet walk.

What makes them different?

The middle of the room they all sit. Sit and talk or search or read.

 Just unplugged from everyone else.

Are they special or gifted? I think not,

just less aware of everything natural in life.

Everything they have been given a chance to see,

 touch, and mainly feel!

Feel the words, the sounds, the colors and shapes.

 Does anyone notice? Does anyone share with me, share how I feel?

 Possibly.

The bubble gum pops, brown eyes side to side.

 Young colorful bag with old lady, cool shoes for old women.

 Does anyone else see the lucky or unlucky people in the circular room like I do?

 One dog ugly, tons of people. different.

 Just about everyone with some thought-clueless to the rest of the world.

 The light comes through, not the same on every side.

Strange for a circular room.

Black dots everywhere, part of the design?

Or simply flaws?

Wont ever know…

It slides down my throat, not as smoothly as hoped, moistens the cracked lips.

 It was quick, thick pink cold all gone, just a cone now, but almost not there at all.

 Does she look at me time and time again?

She’s old, just fixed her home, but a bit poor.

 Fifty dollars or twenty dollars makes a big difference in her eyes:

she’s much older.

 I finally look, it’s not at me, just simply at others.

 Forty-five minutes to go, time passes but at a turtles pace.

To bad this old man isn’t the hare…he’d be losing the race,

but instead he is better off then everyone else,

 his old age,

comes less cares.

 His cold ice cream feels perfect going down, not a worry in his face, just wrinkles.

She looks lost or confused, but she can’t be.

 Only two ways out of the circular room, the hall or one of the six doors to everyone’s ticket away or home,

for me home.

My door is a good one, it’s in the middle of two others

but close to the end.

Number two,

 my ticket home.

 On my plane yet?

 Only a fool would think so, soon though I hope.

 I look, she looks away,

maybe she’s trying to read what I write, maybe not.

“Sitting on the dock of the bay.” a line from a good song.

 I can relate.

He sits and watches the tide, I watch the people.

Just sit and waiting is that all life is?

 No!

Can’t be.

 I’m not waiting just given a chance to observe.

 Last page, last ten minutes till boarding, I’m ready to fly!

 I gather my things, pencil dulls, my turn is up,

 I am now special.