Hotel Zarzamora

 

On a dark and dreary street,

moonlight burning my balding head,

the smell of warm conchitas

dissipating in the air like lead.

 

There she stood on the dirty street

a mission bell curses my arrival

running as fast on my feet

I wish I’d read the Bible

 

Welcome to the Hotel Zarzamora

check in right here please.

Take him to his room Pandora.

“Sir, I will take your valise.”

 

They put me in a room with no windows.

Someone swore there was no outside.

A fish bowl clung to dead minnows,

holy water clawed the insides.

 

I tried to check out in the morning.

She told me this almost out of breath,

“The thing about life

is that it’s followed by death.”