the ceiling had a painting on it
|
in our room in France
|
so we were living underneath
|
some angels in a dance
|
|
my husband was not feeling well
|
and so we went to bed
|
he woke up complaining
|
of an aching in his head
|
|
he said a hundred people
|
had come through our room that night
|
that one by one the old and young
|
asked if he was all right
|
|
one by one the old and young
|
lined up to touch his hand
|
he spent the night explaining
|
they had come to the wrong man
|
|
the concierge was less than helpful
|
when we asked her the next day
|
with coffee and a magazine
|
we went to the desk to pay
|
|
"what happened in that room?" he asked
|
"a death or something strange?"
|
she smiled at him politely
|
and returned to him his change
|
|
well, what I'd like to know
|
and this will be a mystery,
|
is with all the people in that room
|
why none appeared to me?
|
|
when we sleep so close together that
|
our hair becomes entwined
|
I must have missed that moment
|
in the gateway to his mind
|
|
-----------------
|
Honeymoon Suite
|
| Suzanne Vega |
