#32: This story is about a penthouse.
No big deal. The story behind the poem is this: I once stayed in the utterly charming penthouse of the San Remo hotel in San Francisco. The penthouse is a little shack on top of the hotel and is reachable only by a four-story walk-up of steep stairs. It’s the only room in the hotel that has a TV or a telephone.
It also has a little porch area where you can sit and take in a 360-degree view of the city. While I sat there, drinking in the scenery along with a very cold Anchor Steam, from a distance I could hear a baby crying. I was suddenly stung with melancholy and jotted down this poem.
Photo credit: Todd Mauldin, used with permission