They don’t rent rooms to the likes of me
but here’s the trick:
drift between the box trees,
pass beneath the pear drop chandelier
like you own the place.
The lifts are my freight trucks:
sighing between each gilded
I tread the carpets, furlong
after furlong, breathe
the corridor narcotics of
furniture polish and freshly cut lilies.
In the cool chiaroscuro of a toilet
you might almost call me handsome.
(So why should I not also dream
of sales reps, spies,
and bored, subversive chambermaids?)
I hang around.
I stumble on a half-open door.
like an unbuttoned blouse.