If they don’t take animals,
I cannot possibly stay at the Statler
no matter how broad the beds
nor how excellent the view.
Not even if the faucets run hot and cold pearls,
not even if the sheets are cloth of gold,
because I never go anywhere without my raccoon,
my blue raccoon in his nifty mask,
the shadow cast by mind over sight.
I never go abroad without consulting his paw
or reading the weather in the whites of his eyes.
I would share my last crust with his wise mouth.
And even if the manager promised
provisions could be made for a blue raccoon,
I cannot possibly stay at the Waldorf,
no matter how many angels feather the fondues,
no matter how many bishops have blessed the soup,
because I never go anywhere without my cat,
my fuchsia cat in her choirboy bow,
in the purity of whose sleep a nun would feel shamed,
in whose dreams the mouse lies down with the elephant.
I never go to bed without setting her at the door
for her sleep robs even the serpent of poison
and no door closes where she takes her rest,
but even if the manager said, very well,
we can accommodate, for a fee, a fuchsia cat,
I cannot possibly stay at the Ritz.
I understand bears are not welcome there.
I understand that everyone walks on two legs,
and I never go anywhere without my bear
who is comelier of gait than any woman,
who wears no shoes and uses no speech
but many a day has laid down his life for me
in this city of purses, assassins, and the poor.
He would give me his coat and walk abroad in his bones,
and he loves a sunny window and a kind face.
I need a simple room papered with voices
and sorrows without circumstance, and an old lady
in the kitchen below who has welcomed
visitors more desperate than ourselves
and who fondly recalls a pregnant woman riding a donkey
and three crazy men whose only map was a star.