The ceiling had a painting on it

In our room in France

So we were living underneath

Some angels in a dance My husband was not feeling well

And so we went to bed

He woke up complaining

Of an aching in his head He said a hundred people

Had come through our room that night

That one by one the old and young

Asked if he was all right One by one the old and young

Lined up to touch his hand

He spent the night explaining

They had come to the wrong man The concierge was less than helpful

When we asked her the next day

With a coffee and a magazine

We went to the desk to pay "What happened in that room?", he asked

"A death or something strange?"

She smiled at him politely

And returned to him his change Well, what I'd like to know

And this will be a mystery

Is with all the people in that room

Why none appeared to me? When we sleep so close together that

Our hair becomes entwined

I must have missed that moment

In the gateway to his mind