Getaway

The kitchen of the three-day

Rental is quiet, almost

Silent, except when the fridge

Compressor comes on. Cattle

In the corral outside low,

Every rare once in a while.

These days there’s a narrow band

Between standardized tourist

Infrastructure and despair

In remote towns where no one

Rents at all, since who would come?

This place is near scenic trails,

Near enough to snag a few

Travelers not too fussy,

Not paying that much either,

But far enough the scruffy

Motel’s still locally owned,

And there’s not one budget chain.

The old ranch house is trying hard

To be charming, to present

As a quaint country cottage.

There’s a flowery Welcome

Sign hanging in the kitchen,

Flowery pillows and shams.

There’s a guestbook that explains,

Settler ranchers built the house

And ran a successful herd

Until they lost it. They turned

It into a boarding house

During the Great Depression

To survive, says the guestbook.

Unmarried great-granddaughters

In their eighties run it now.

A real Victorian stands,

Sagging, paint badly flaking,

But occupied, still ornate,

Across the street, its yard

Filled with old tractors and trucks.

The fridge motor stops. Silence.