Like all the others

The walls are made of a plaster

Like canvas of an oil painting

The door is guilded mahogany

And guilt once sat in the bathtub

As red stained the grey marble of the floor

What happened

Behind that door?

Thicker than a vault, yet

By design,

Just as easy

Just one door before

The room of a king

Three consecutive 7’s align

In a window

The width of a greedy gaze

As such,

None would suspect

All the attention is suspended and directed

At the winner’s suite

The love between two

Or the solitude of one

That occurs behind all these closed doors

But in 778?