Why I'm a Terrible Bed and Breakfast Patron
       

I'm always afraid I'll break the antiques,
and frankly, I don't really care for them,
one chair as good as another to me—
as long as it accommodates my butt.
I don't like innkeeper small talk, refuse
to pet the resident dog or cat, not caring
how old the house is, or who owned it
before the current owners, or where
the drapes came from or how authentically
the grounds have been restored to former
glory. Reluctant to leave a cheery message
in the guest book—isn't the fact I stayed here
enough? —I know the owners want ooohing
and aahing from me, curiosity, expressions
of awe about floral patterns and chifforobes.
I'm sorry. I can't do it. I don't care about
who slept here a hundred years ago, or twenty
years ago, or last night. I don't care how
aged the trees are out front, what flowers,
freshly cut, reside in these vases one of my
clumsy elbows might send skidding to parquet
floors. I want to go home, where the chairs
don't match, the lawn's got stumps from sawing
down trees of no historical significance,
and the carpets came from the discount place
down the highway. I want to go home
where hands that only I know will cook
my breakfast, will caress my lips and face
to welcome me home, back to my own bed.

Tweet

Copyright © 2021 Allison Joseph All rights reserved
from Lexicon
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission