Sunday, October 20, 2024

Poem: The Inn


The Inn

The Inn
was at the end
of a winding gravel road.
White arrow signs;
the positioning system.
Either amuse oneself
with stomach flips
or wonder
if you might die
by head-on collision.
Catapulting
over a quick dip
followed by a sharp hill.
I liked when we took a chance
and you drove fast
through a tunnel of trees.
Odd that a rustic place
was filled with hotel silver.
Contrast the bed made of logs.
Autumn tartan dressed the room.
It smelled like crisp apples.
I took a bite out of you.
Falling delicious.

- Patti Friday



COPYRIGHT 2007-2024 Patti Friday b.1959.

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