The bath robe in the hotel is immaculately clean,
With no familiar stains of my own sperm,
The towels whiter than I have ever seen,
Not even one trace of a single germ.

In the best table of the restaurant I am called sir,
The soup is annoyingly perfect, I don’t even have to stir,
I am having a five-star personalized impersonal service,
Now can you tell me what have I done to deserve this?

Their feigned affection is eternal,
As long as my stay is to last,
Their alleged respect ephemeral,
Regardless of my history, my past.

I read the names of the waiters on the tag,
I would like to joke with them and to gag,
I want to know what they think, and who they shag,
In reply, I wish not to be asked about the laundry bag.

I remember a Serb guy called Danilo,
He was a bartender in a hotel in Malmo,
Together we listened to techno and house,
And he always gave me a drink on the house.

To return the courtesy, I gave him one of my artworks,
Hoping that a friendship would be in the works,
He promised to keep it with his other reproductions of Dali,
But never hearing back, I guess he sold it and traveled to Bali.

And there was the king of Kos, or koskungen,
Dreaming of Greece lightened his night shifts in Sweden,
And that beautiful receptionist called Danika,
She was adopted in Europe, but was from Sri Lanka.

I still recall that nice guy Marcello,
I think he was a real working class hero,
He left everything and started from zero,
But I thought he was as mighty as Nero.

A naïve, hard-working Argentinean,
All he wanted was to come back home,
Open a hotdog stand with cousin Esteban,
While leaving behind him a burning Rome.

To all these people, I am nothing but a guest,
Coming from the north, south, east, or west,
They will not really care, but they try their best,
As long as I check out before noon from my nest.

But unlike others who take the bath robe,
To remember where they trotted in the globe,
I just take the complimentary mini-shampoo,
The only thing that broke the intimacy taboo.

In my collection are small bottles of St. Yves and Garnier,
A soap from Aleppo and something by Roger et Gallet,
Small artifacts that serve to as personal reminders,
Of naked moments in those private showers.

When the scenery around me changes constantly,
When my thoughts imprison me internally,
The only thing that gives me back my autonomy,
Is a one on one chat with my own anatomy.

It is only then, that I would feel home away from home.