It has been years since guests have spent the night,
yet here it sits, majestic in its state
of disrepair, a shadow of the sight
it once projected, ill-aware of fate.
When gold ran out the miners laid in wait,
and word got out, which slowed the westward drift,
migration stalled while those in stead debate
decided if economies would lift.
With nothing else to draw, the end was swift,
more vacancies, the empty rooms were cold.
No longer could the owners man the shift,
and nothing left- the hotel hadn't sold.
The long abandoned property, forlorn,
displays its fading windows as we mourn.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.