Hyatt House

	In Kinky's house there are
	Black checker pieces posing as kitchen cupboard pulls 
	in bezels of chrome;
	The smells of Della's laundry steaming up like 
	sunshine for the nose
	into the chilled, still, apple-scent-heavy dark of the hall.
	And out beyond the stairless, concrete ramp
	(rigid) for sure-footed running)
	Potatoes volunteer in fluffy, black compost,
	modest within the hedged corner.

	Five, eight-footed Five, arriving at five,
	Tripping down the properly decayed macadam—
	polished tar and crumble, peanut brittle path—
	Hands out on either side to hear the brushed rustle of boxwood.

	Boxwood loses its scent,
	filling the cool tiled vault,
	echoey with furiously jangled "Bells of Sarna."

The heavy door is opened by a bent woman
Murmuring welcome, quiet jokes and apologies with
Orange juice, peanuts, frugally preserved chee-wees,
Soft cheek and hard-lipped kisses (some hazelnut)
In marble track racket.
	
	In Kinky's house we are
	immersed in a pond of Belong.

				— Gray Schoenberger Glenn