Guests

we try to blend
to the colors of the guests
their perfume
and laughter

sooner the blend dissolves
in discordance
we become overcrowded
in thoughts like an overloaded boat
their perfumes bring
the foul smell of pretenses
and their laughter simply
does not synchronize
with our grief

we wait forward to the last day
of their stay
and when they leave we ponder
that this must not be repeated again

we are better left alone
in our sorrow
the guests cannot understand
we are disturbed
perturbed and molested

there are hotels anyway
where they can just throw their dirt
leave the linens unfolded
chairs scattered on the row
water from the faucet
left open

there will be no murmurs that
at times
all these familiarities breed nothing but
contempt

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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