Could be that smell
of the outdoor pool
in the center of a ring
of motor lodge rooms—no interior
hallway, no escape
from a three-year-old’s
fate. Could be those Thanksgiving
celebrations held in hotel
ballrooms—all the family,
including a father’s wives past,
present, future. And affiliated
teens. Could be how adulthood changes
associations to reach this time
of obsession with inns—

urban, seaside, roadside, airport

side, and the stories they hold
for her to rescue. She’s ready
to roll out her ladder, she’s sleeping
in the double bed next to the window
overlooking a courtyard fountain
tonight. Sealed shut,
it barricades her from that pungent hint
of chlorine. Just in case
someone might fall in.