I am a hotel. A Best Western, Holiday Inn, something along those lines. The kind of place with bed skirts that match the drapes. The kind of place where the perpetual buzzing of the vacancy sign shines onto the blacktop parking lot. The kind of place where you can rest your weary head; you’re always welcome to get a good night’s sleep. The kind of place with duvet covers. There are weekly, monthly, yearly rates but we will never, ever speak of the price. It will just be understood. You can treat me like your temporary home. You can unpack your suitcases and life into the empty dressers and closets. You can drowsily sway to the music of the jazz quartet playing in the cocktail lounge. You can kick up your feet, swim in the pool, get fat off of the bacon, eggs, sausage of the continental breakfast. Do not be surprised when I start missing you even before your check-out at noon. The smile of the concierge service will never fade. But I know you will be gone soon enough.