Whatever it is that you want
it’s unlikely to be found at the door
between the second and third stair—
the blinking button sticks
at a floor you might claim
to have loved more, elevated—
Promise lives there—
not of homely meals, bright lighting
or a full-length settee to couch
every body as firmly as they demand
but of plenty rich and strange
the menu only limited to your
own budget and bag size—
decorated, occasionally sanitised
with a nest that bears my name
and a suitable chair
a bend in the atmosphere so cunning
you have no way of guessing
its next turn—all you have to do
is take or discard
towel, kettle, candle
for your numb senses—
the invocation of any random
godlike thing to protect you
during your stay
linen—clean
pages fanned out into a yawn
and temperate ceiling fan speeds
Come calling
make the journey
and you’ll never be denied—
anything you need
is not everything on offer
but there is strength in the welcome—
the hostess mimicry began
at a young age—
a skeleton still remains
and enough space to dream
you could do anything—
even beyond
the rich, the strange
Wind down like a music box
until your melody plays
in retrograde, until your
boundaries can be traced—
the journey back is nothing
compared to the comfort
on your inside and the rate,
it’s always fair—
(what it offered—what it gave
how it was used, used up
and betrayed)
put your hand to the door
knock again—
