I detect a butterscotch and whiskey ambiance,
sounds hushed over plush Turkish rugs embellishing
the Manor's Maple floors, thick draperies darken rooms,
deaden, dampen stray, superfluous noise.
Here, poetry resides in privacy and privilege
as deep and uninterrupted as the North Sea.
I entered once or twice, crept about
on padded feet, awed and deferential
like the Help waiting to get paid.
No comments:
Post a Comment