The Grand Budapest,

in the apple section of the mountains,

Seneca Lake staring with one languid blue eye

and the frontage of the big building.

Outside, the surface is cooling 25 degrees,

raw heat is coming up, as steam.

A Gypsy Rainbow stretches its wings

over at the mountainside.

They were saying,

“he’s missing something, inside of him,

something that normal people have”,

and he was fleeing away again,

in the courtesy trolley from the hotel.

The little scarlet thing was silent as a mouse,

doing nothing, as if playing possum,

until he pressed the accelerator pedal with his sandal,

then the engine quickly turned over: a shudder through the thing,

and he lurched forward towards the Gypsy Rainbow hanging.

“What’s he on about, now?  Off to the hills to think through

his mad thoughts, his helter skelter designs.”

The Gypsy Rainbow reaching across the horizon,

a beautiful said eye, and scarcely a gleat of rain, yet.