No Room At The Inn

We see them as we take our bags to 

the car. Tonight’s pink-cheeked guests,

massed by the registration. With weekend

plans. Their secret assignations. Silk 

pajamas. One couple will have our laundered 

room. They will sigh at the four-poster; 

purr at the wrapped milled soap; pass a 

hand over the crested velum paper and 

envelopes. As we did just hours ago. 

I pause as they discover the koi 

splashing in the mid-morning sunlight. 

I go to speak some sort of warning-- 

we who have seen the other side

of the fluffy duvet, left our soiled 

towels balled in misery at the foot 

of the bath. Found a denim shirt 

with a mint in the breast pocket 

hanging behind the door. Soon 

they will know. I slide your suitcase

in the back seat of the car, remember

this feeling forever. Then turn eyes onto 

the gravel road for home again.