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I covered her, against the cold,
a towel bearing the insignia of
The Radisson Hotel, all lily white,
I had been right that day in 98,
to question what they charge,
to stay a night on cotton sheets.
All night I'd take the cubes
in bucketloads from the machine,
ice comes in handy in those nights,
and samples of Camay, a special soap,
and dove, this time it was shampoo,
a shower cap, a glass, a Louffa sponge,
no, leave the bible, I won't need it
and Mister Gideon would be a man in pain.
Two towels would be fine and even out
the signature on Visa, pay your frickin' way.
My dog, she looks at me with eyes that do defy
what poets, sculptors, painters have observed,
I'd gladly fetch the golden fleece itself,
to cover her, to pat her wild and scruffy hair
just for the look of love, unmatched, and not to share.
Hairy Wombat
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