Robert Polito, born 1951, is from Boston and lives in New York City.
He is an academic and poet, director of the writing program at The New School, here in New York City. He holds a Ph.D in English and English Language and Literature from Harvard University. He received the National Book Critics Circle Award, and an Edgar Award for Savage Art: a Biography of Jim Thompson.

From the anthology:
Poems of New York
Everyman’s Library
Pocket Poets

This poem takes place in Manhattan’s Meat Packing District. I grew up on East 14th Street, this area is at the other end, West 14th Street, near the West Side Highway. It was a wild, gritty area until it became gentrified with chichi shops and restaurants.

Some good, raw writing, just the way I like it.

Overheard In The Love Hotel
Robert Polito

Again the cab slips west down 14th almost
To the river—
The cobbled meat market, steel grates down;
A thrown-up Christmas tree
Lot on an old dock beyond the stalled highway,
A whiff of blood and the first snow
That keeps not falling.

We’ve just checked into the Love Hotel—
Film Noire signatures on the register:
“Tom Neal,” “Ann Savage”;
Spouses discarded, even her
Two other lovers forsaken at the bolted door.

Fading polyester roses drape the bed—matching
Trellis on an overhead mirror; evening breeze
Out of Hoboken through cracked panes
—Nothing can dispel the half-life traces of
Roach Bomb
She chases with a blunt cigar…
“So sexy you brought these. This is sweet—
And throws a little curve into the day.”

Blue ice pail; Absolut from a frosted cup,
Raking her new coil of brassy curls,
“Can you picture me with grey hair?
My mother passed her forties as a blonde;
Now you know my true color—

You and a few others.”
Wrapping her ankles around his, she pins
Him on the spread
As from a room upstairs springs rattle to a finish;
“It’s like I’m one of them…
All the passion, the ecstasy—
We spend the rest of our lives trying to shake.”

Reflected along the ceiling, freckles
From her back rotate constellations
He traces like a blind man reading a star map;
“You’ve got to see who I am—
these yearnings, sometimes they last two years,

Or they can burn out after all of seven seconds;
But they’re intense, and very real.”
The will phone rings—twenty minutes, please.
“I wish I could say I just didn’t know
How they call just before your time’s up,
Or not getting your hair wet in the shower,
The towels that irritate your skin”—
Six-inch scar across her panty-line
Where last spring the surgeon
Scooped out her insides,
Reddening with soap and steam;
and still stings when she wears silk.

Outside, snow holding. Another cab.
“Where was I, tonight? I’ve been
Lying to Kevin about Steve, Steve about Kevin;
And to Stanley about both of them…
First time I lie to you—
Then you’ll know we’re really going someplace.”

reply starfishred wrote on Jan 13, ’09 hmmm interesting now let me think a little and I will be back-

editdeletereply lauritasita wrote on Jan 13, ’09 I had trouble sleeping last night so I was a bit tired before I read this. NOT ANY MORE, LOL!!! I hope I didn’t miss anything here. I’d better come back too.

reply rosiefielding2 wrote on Jan 13, ’09 this poem evokes dark delights , my imagination was stirred as i was reading the words, clever use of words , loved it very much indeed.

reply sylvie1 wrote on Jan 14, ’09 INTERESTING WRITE ON THE GRITTY SIDE OF A HARD LIFEhttp://sylvie1.multiply.com/journal/item/735/POETRY_WEDNESDAY_…_WALK_PROUDLY

reply sweetpotatoqueen wrote on Jan 14, ’09 sanssouciblogs said Spouses discarded, even her Two other lovers forsaken at the bolted door. Fading polyester roses drape the bed—matching Trellis on an overhead mirror; evening breeze Out of Hoboken through cracked panes —Nothing can dispel the half-life traces of Roach Bomb Very raw indeed.! The writing solidifies the seediness of this hotel and the intent of it’s vistors, Not a topic that is often presented with such openess. After reading this it makes me think of how truly sad it is to find oneself in such a situation completely devoid of beauty or meaning..especially by ones own choosing. Polito paints a rather raunchy little picture here….his writing is superb.

reply dianahopeless wrote on Jan 14, ’09 Certainly not your average sugar and spice type poetry. Definitely seedy or raunchy. lol

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Jan 14, ’09 But very well done!

reply fluffyj wrote on Jan 15, ’09 Getting old unnoticed sucks. It was the part about the scar, the one that stills stings in the shower. Soap and a shower only touches the surface. Real pain is always more than skin deep. This was raw. I loved it. -janeen

reply asolotraveler wrote on Jan 18, ’09, edited on Jan 18, ’09 urbanly set – grittily clear