Take No Heroes Hotel

Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs

the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story

lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies

of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below

erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.

The Take No Heroes Hotel

Welcome to the inn
where no reservations are taken, where
possession is one quarter, obsession
one more, 

the other half 

a lifetime spent designing the perfect
room where relinquishment adorns
each and every square foot of space
to walk 

away from each and every hero
you took, she took, he took,
we all took,
save ourselves. Welcome 

to the color
of the first suit you swam in,
to the sound
of the first dive you performed. Welcome 

to the taste
of the first sea scallop you craved, to the touch
of the first porch
you danced upon—it is, 

always was,
The Take No Heroes Hotel
where we belong.