The poetry hotel

The poetry hotel

By Stephen Philip Druce

I was booked to do a poetry reading at The New York Poetry Festival and just happened to be staying in the same hotel as some of the world’s most revered poets. The prospect of rubbing shoulders with writers of the highest caliber exited me immensely. I arrived at the hotel reception and saw there was a huge dead rhinoceros lying in front of the reception desk. This was puzzling to me — why was it there?

Surely the animal hadn’t intended to book a room for the night, suddenly collapsing in the reception area before the booking arrangement had been completed. I just couldn’t imagine a rhinoceros in a hotel room: breaking all the mattress springs, squeezing itself into the shower, eating the curtains, trying to mount the lampshade, and calling room service:

“Gggrrrallumprangerzzz.”

“Good evening sir, how can I help you?”

“Gggrrrallumprangerzzz.”

“Can you repeat that sir?”

“Gggrrrallumprangerzzz.”

“Sorry sir, I’m not understanding all of what you say. If you require an eight o’clock morning call just say gggrroolaeeemm.”

“Gggrrool.”

“Half of that noise? Ok, so you mean half past eight then?”

“Gggrrool.”

“Oh, I see — you have a stutter, sorry.”

The rhinoceros was so big that the only way to receive my room key from the receptionist was by climbing through the middle of the beast. My agenda that evening was to mingle in the hotel bar with some of the world’s finest poets, to discuss our mutual passion for expressive literature over a cocktail or two into the early hours.

Instead, The New York Fire Brigade had to pull me through the rhino’s anus with a rope. The commotion attracted the attention of every poet in the hotel. They guffawed and mocked my excruciating ordeal as I tried to retain some dignity by making an apologetic announcement combined with an impromptu poem:

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