Cheap Motel Outside of Holbrook, Arizona by Cinthia Ritchie

Cheap Motel Outside of Holbrook, Arizona

Mildew sucks the ceiling,
we eat crackers in the bathtub,
wine bottle chilling
the toilet, we fuck
all week, sweat bruising
the sheets, we smear
apricot juice over our palms,
eat cold burritos,
throw Cheetos out the window
for the lizards,
we are earth children,
too late for the sixties,
we smoke homegrown,
forget to wash our armpits,
dance with skinny Indian children,
outside the gas station,
one steals my wallet and we laugh,
smoke another joint,
sit in the truck,
Zeppelin licking our ears,
we got no plans, no jobs,
no place we got to be,
freeeedoooom, we sing,
but each night after checking the bed
for scorpions we swallow
Thrift Rite vitamins,
brush our teeth in Zinfandel,
floss all the way back to our molars
unable, even now, to turn away
from the comforting rituals of home.

by Cinthia Ritchie

Cinthia on Facebook

Twitter: @cinthiaritchie1

Editor’s Note: Some habits can’t be forgotten. The last few lines of this surrealistic poem set up an emotional contradiction the narrator can’t escape.

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