I've checked into a place
Much like this before
The furniture lined with restriction
Woven worries don the upholstery at the floor
It is a waiting room white as tight knuckle skin
Black diamonds adorn the door
There is a small zen garden
In the corner, on a table
Existing but for use as nothing
It contains no sand or rocks or rake
Delicate plant life around the room
But not a drop of soil at its base
A bowl of peppermints, but only for those with
An acquired taste

Familiarity takes a swig
Burns in the tummy
Of the hearth of the room
Only here does the fire stay cold
And only here is the news always old.