She has a pretty house
With a mansard roof
Punctured with dormer windows
And guests climb
Up the steps
Like rapping woodpeckers
Weighted down
With their baggage.
She opens her door
And they file in
Sometimes weary
From their journey
Sometimes angry
From their travails.
Sometimes complaining
Sometimes malicious
Sometimes happy.

She entertains them anyway
Souls in the night
They are all searching for something
Das Ding
Some are armed with Bruntons
So they might navigate a path
In the dark
But the stars know where
You are
Better to be still
So they can shine their light on you.