She quickly readies
The food for quest
Silent in movement
Lest others guess
...I don't belong
He stands at the bar
Eating oatmeal and whey
His wife readies the luggage
As they operate the day
...trying to belong
She gets the phone
And orders maintenance
He sits, without a word
Enduring her boss, with patience
...belonging isn't necessary
He stumbles around
Trying to find his seat
There's a secluded corner
Where he and his friend retreat
...we will NEVER belong
The signal that drives
Every soul to connect
Is the self same vibration
That brings the soul to reject
...belonging
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-26-2026
I am sitting in a hotel lobby in a small town south of Des Moines
That means Iowa for those of you who did not know
I am drinking coffee with French Vanilla flavoring and sweetener
Waiting for my twin sister, listening to loud country western music
I would not mind the music if it was on a proper volume
It is weirdly loud and proud for six a.m.
as if it thinks it is better than rock and roll or bluegrass
my nerves are screaming
Good to see, soneone grass roots.'
I wish them success,' and hope they
Really, stick in their boots '
New Orleans’ 1962 ostentatious hotel lobby
extravagant crystal fluted chandeliers
highly polished walnut counter tops
opulent Italian marble floors
plush scarlet velvet cushioned couches
swankly brass and glass décor
luxury never seen after nineteen sixty-two
motel lobby in arkansas
close to the crystal bridges
young man with tattoos walks to large creamer
he begins to pump creamer into coffee
sees me and indicates I go ahead of him.
Ii shake my head ‘no”
tell him to go ahead, he will be quicker than me
two polite strangers making conversation
in a motel lobby in arkansas
I sit down to eat my breakfast
watching people sauntering in and out
four children skip past, giggling like faeries.
they could be from new mexico or virginia
There are license plates outside from several states
I marvel that people are vacationing
in the middle of the week in arkansas
When others speak
in hushed tones,
behind closed doors,
my voice
rises
for the voiceless.
My heart
only knows
to advocate,
to persuade,
to fight
for the cause.
Wreaths
Paintings
Wall hangings
A decorator's paradise
Wooden cars
Paint brushes
Stick on designs
A child's moment to learn how to drive for the first time
Candle wicks
Candle scents
Colored wax
A candle maker's luxury
A hobby for all
Who come to seek out
Their good fortune
She swirls like desert sand
She has a natural curve of welcome
Complex, with the openness of a sensual woman
Each beautiful light-filled stroke artistic genius.
She is an overall intriguing pattern of love.
I came to this lobby today to write a poem.
Instead, I stare in awe, feeling humbled.
Who was the architect?
Surely one lone person did not envision this masterpiece.
Perhaps it was a committee of angels.
I feel I am in the presence of greatness.
I pick up my pen and begin to write.
What we going to do, about addressing the elephant in the room
Leave it be behind you, rest of us will continue this meeting by zoom
By David Kavanagh
His moustache was long and black,
silky at the ends, shiny almost,
slick with gel to keep the ends
turned up in a smile, even when
his lips didn't match. They look
like shoestring ends, she thought,
all perfectly pulled together on
either size of a bulbous nose.
She never asked his name, just
watched as he strode with
purpose through the lobby of the
hotel she liked to sit in, reading.
His hair was short, salt and
pepper, some would say, but she
didn't use spices, so she wasn't
sure. Not white like snow, not
black like tar, but in between,
like a new snowfall driven over
by dirty cars. She stared, just
a little too long and he turned his
head and smiled, wide gappy
yellowing teeth screamed at her
from underneath the black stache.
She turned to her book and read.
In the lobby of the courthouse
People’s demeanor
Are such a telltale
Casual and comfortable
The secretaries
Determined and debonair
The lawyers
Focused and unperturbed
The judges
And then the others
With scowls on their faces
Nervousness and concern
The weight of accusation
The slow ominous pace
Of being led directly
To the slaughterhouse
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
A lobby's meant to represent
The building it is fronting,
To welcome all who enter
From the elements it's blunting.
It may be fancy, to impress
Or functional and boring
But either way, it greets us
From its ceilings to its flooring.
And whether an apartment, office,
Inn or a hotel,
The lobby sends a message
Not too easy to dispel.
It lets us know if we fit in
Or if we don't belong
And nothing can convince us
That our feelings might be wrong.
Hotel Lobby
There is nothing quite so lived in as a hotel lobby.
The seats are worn with daily use, the lighting just the right depth to hide the shadows who have passed through its angles, sharpened with use.
The maître d' returns my watchful eye with disdain
I do not belong in this hotel lobby;
Too many children and shady businessman and painted women have sat where I am sitting, waiting for Charon's taxi to take them back. Even the staff are prepared for the shift change, when they can drop their suits of sophistication for a simpler garb to present to their families.
Only the maître d' has made his home here, in the twilight zone between the powerful heat rolling through his glass doors and simulated frigidness within. This lamp here is his candlelight for lonely nights of black-clad faceless staff with pinned-up hair.
I am here to observe the wakening of livelihoods; the pre-amble of business meetings; the preparations to an outing day.
Perhaps only after will I feel the need to sleep.
Hotel Lobby
To be in a lobby is oh such a shame,
Lonely and troubled it’s all such a game,
Suits and stubble typing like pawns,
Fed to the lions before going cold.
Success in their minds with a stench of despair,
As they desperately struggle to sustain a soul.
Battered and worn with the internet scorned,
Corporate specials are oh such a bore.
Stiffly dressed, there’s nowhere to hide,
A pint at the bar is a stretched slide.
Universal wallpaper from the hotel land
surrounds every painting that’s oh so bland.
Laptop in hand they now must run,
Pretending to be busy is all part of the fun.
The starch duvet awaits and morning will come,
Lies must be told and dirty deals done.
The significant shudder of newspaper pages echo the sterile breakfast tables,
Days of ignominy will consistently need snippets of stories to spin the reels.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.