I worked some years ago at a restaurant which had a hotel above it that Maya Angelou would rent the same bare-bones room in, each visit. It had no phone and no TV. She used it to write. During a period when she was not renting it, after one particular night of some debotchery, I borrowed the key from the front desk, snuck into the room, and sat for a time on the floor. I wanted to absorb any energy remaining, and any possible inspiration. The following resulted later.
Full Moon in the vacant room of
Maya Angelou.
A bed, a desk and chair furnish the portal
To your muse.
I don’t know you
Black Lady Poet
Three flights up
High.
I feel you Bounce
Off walls. Blue Stripe, Old White
Plaster Cracking Poetry
Lurks in Vampire Wings.
Stay with me and Drawl.
Tell me some story never shaken
From your pen.
But alas, the sobering sun comes
All too soon,
Through windows holding in
Your light
High
Up in your room.
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