Where the clouds will wheel in and out like guests
and the concierge is a vane, pure service
at the beck and call of any old wind.
It’s your will and your way, he says, his back
arched naturally from all the bow-downs.
Where you’re Quo—you’re just visiting,
your bellhop a summons, a tempest.
A corner light blinks its cycle of Walk/Don’t Walk .
Cabs whistle past on their way to Manhattan
and the blacktop tires sing their muffled trouble.
Where the lobby is an empty state within a city
and your shot glass St. Reach sweet-talks
the welldrinks and scolds the mother tongue.
It’s Saturday, and you’re an evening,
a Jacob Riis moment in a lounge like Kansas.
Where Quo, pure Brooklyn, stumbles out at night
and sings the empty ballad edifice.
Hard rain: if you walk outside and look back in,
the concierge behind his cherry desk will call
you a myth, a dodger, and a harvest all wrapped up in one.
Where you’re Quo, looking for stars on a dark night.
In your pocket, to be sure, ticket stubs from something seen,
the pronouns that carry the day:
We, Us, and Ours. They rest like feathers,
a soft lint under your key, your card.