Aug 19 2016

We’ve lodged inside an inn without an out.

The windowpanes and doors are painted on.

The porter smiles, although I tend to doubt

his role is truly taxed or put-upon.

I ask him, “May I leave?” He laughs and nods:

“The exit’s sealed for your security.

I can oblige and leave you to your odds;

you’re welcome to your immaturity.”

I thought we might bust out the fire door

and let the sirens say our long goodbyes.

The cries of mutts and brats would underscore

our hosts’ midnight arousal by surprise.

They made for us a bed and put a mint.

They set a checkout time and gave no hint.

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