Meanwhile, a few blocks from Times Square by J.E.A. Wallace

The hotel room waits like a square in a maze
To capture the lost and with its walls
Beat desire for movement from you

The door creaks opens like a chuckle
As another washed-up adventurer sighs
Seeing the box his exertions have earned him

The new guest is The Invisible Man
He throws his hat on the bed and
Starts unwinding his bandages

But there’s a knock at the door
When he’s only halfway through
Which brings a ‘re-do?’ ‘keep on?’ panic

He decides it would be better to look nonchalant
And opens his suitcase and takes something out
Smiling at its sparkling in the swinging light

So that when the showgirl in peril bursts in
There’s a bandaged man sitting on the window sill
Who’s blowing an old, soft song on a golden saxophone

And even the room is impressed…

Could this be the adventurer’s rest?