A honeymoon poem, to share with friends over at the marvelous dVerse community.
This house is smaller than the brochure made
It look. There is barely room for our bags
In the front hall as we sign the guestbook.
Breakfast is between eight and eight thirty
We are informed, and would we prefer
A fry-up or just the continental?
Our hostess has a typewriter. The walls
Are filled with neat signs telling us things like
When we may use the bathroom (no long baths)
And that the lounge is open after six
For us to watch the TV or peruse
The two shelves of Mills and Boone romances.
But this is our first night, and thus we have
A romance of our own to consummate.
Pinned above our bed is a note that reads:
Guests are requested not to talk after
Ten p.m. We obey, shyly, taking
Our time, trying not to break any rules.