The Hotel

Like a snail, I carry my Hotel about me wherever I go. The windows are ablaze with all the king's boys. They shout at each other; their shouts collect in the courtyard below, and settle on the linen billowing on the line.

They are rehashing quarrels and bygones. They call it rehearsal. It's eternal. They read passages from each other's letters. They bring single earrings to the table as evidence of wild nights. They will not hesitate to show a bent hair bobby recovered from a haystack. They narrate and question. They throw their hats to the ground and swear in frustration. They hang by their feet from the fire escape and serenade each other, substituting their own lyrics.

The neighbors take an interest by way of keyholes and drops in the eaves. The predominant sentiment is envy. The king's boys got gall. They got jazz in their sleeves and owls in their hearts, hooting to keep them awake all night. If you unfurled their thoughts, they would outdo the prairie. They cannot withhold, they cannot refrain. They read fortunes in paper cuts, sidestep scars, give lip to villains. The king's boys are bright, a lamp onto the nations. They have a winning manner, disarming charms; they will divide and conquer. They will inhabit you.