2/10
In a hostel pod in NYC, so sleek,
My husband checked in for a budgeted week.
The staff was kind, the room was clean,
But the sleeping pod? A metal machine.
No vent to breathe, no air to cool,
He lay there sweating, feeling the fool.
One thin pillow, a mattress of stone,
He tossed and he turned, aching alone.
By night number two, he reached his cap,
Booked a new room with a midnight tap.
Escaped the pod with a grateful sigh—
At last, real sleep, and a bed that didn't fry.
Marina
Estada de 2 nits (juny 2025)