Poem by Fiona Helmsley

Delmore’s at The Dixie
By Fiona Helmsley

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
He drinks a fizzy Coca-Cola breakfast
Surrounded by magicians
In The Terrace Room.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
It seems he’s in a hurry
He’s writing angry letters to the editor
Of The Partisan Review.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
Like Dylan’s at The Chelsea
And Sylvia’s at The Barbizon
Throwing her clothes from the roof.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
He stumbles to The Strand on Sunday
Looking for a book by Sigmund Marx
Called Das Oedipal.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
It’s hard to ignore the festive season
With an explosive- laden Christmas tree
In the bathtub where he bathes.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
Rockefeller is the reason
This broken bard wears grass- stained suits
And stalks the halls till dawn.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
He tells Lou Reed, I won’t meet Andy.
Then adds, And who the hell are you?
Don’t sell out just the same.

Delmore’s at the Dixie.
The bellboy says he’s been talking about Trotsky.
Ginsberg thinks, This sounds just like Naomi.
Is this the fate that awaits all Dreamer Jews?

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
Soon it will all be over
He’ll check out and graduate to God
From an Ivy-league hotel.

Delmore’s at The Dixie.
He says in his best James Cagney:
To the destructive element,
C’est vrai! C’est vrai! C’est vrai!

Fiona Helmsley is a writer of creative non-fiction and poetry. Her writing can be found in various anthologies such as Ladyland and Best Sex Writing and online at websites such as Jezebel, Junk Lit, The Hairpin and The Rumpus. Her book of essays, stories, and poems, My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers is forthcoming in 2015.