Arizona Gothic
You arrive in the wooden town by one of the only roads
It must have just been raining outside because you can hear the toads
But you’ve been driving for days in the state and haven’t seen a cloud
You can also hear cicadas buzzing in the trees, strangely loud
You haven’t seen one of those yet either
You go up to the front desk of the dusty roadside cheap motel
There is no one there but on the counter a silver service bell
You ring it. It doesn’t make a sound. A shadow man comes out still
He gives you a set of keys but doesn’t ask you to pay the bill
You leave to your room quickly, unsettled by the shadow’s eyes
Or lack thereof. There is no wind, though you swear you can hear it sigh
Or perhaps that was just your imagination. You hoped so.
Even though it’s close to midnight, there are no stars. The sky still glows
With the color of blood at the very edge of the horizon
The sun never really sets. It just hides. Soon it will be rising
You struggle through the heat the following day to see the town sights
The sun is unnaturally hot and always unbearably bright
The locals cover themselves in clothes like they’re hiding their skin
And when they see tourists, their lips curl into a twisted grin
They never seem to drink water, although your mouth is always dry
It’s hot enough outside Satan himself would probably die
They seem to look around for some evil creature when you’re near
And the dark hunger in their eyes brings you uncomfortable fear
You wanted to see the Grand Canyon, but it’s just a bottomless hole
The tour guide says not to go out at night, something about lost souls
You don’t know what to say, so you just go back to the small store
Everything is made of adobe or wood. Except for the floors
They’re always tiled, something about what might come out from below
You asked if there were any native American sights you could go
The leathery skinned woman with a graying braid points out a map
There’s a small red stain. She sees your eyes and says quickly it’s tree sap
You decide not to go. You don’t think many people who do come back
After all, there are only footsteps going, coming back there aren’t tracks
You go back to your motel, the same worker in the lobby, you smile
He doesn’t smile back. You cast your eyes down at the stone tiles
You swear that red stain wasn’t there before, or the bullet holes in the wall
You just shake your head and listen to the lonely coyotes outside call
You decide the water must come from the rivers they claim exist there
Not that you’d seen any of them, but you’re too tired to really care
In the morning you pack and decide you’ve had enough of the ghost town
The man at the front desk frowns, now you can see his eyes exist and are brown
He asks if you want to see some ruins before you leave, you decline
You didn’t like that no one offers to go with you, it must have been a sign
You leave and still don’t see any clouds. Does it ever rain here, you wonder?
As if the Earth sensed your thoughts, you hear a loud sourceless crack of thunder
Still no clouds. You shake your head and look out at the cacti and sparse brush
You see a two-legged figure with a cow head. You get in your car in a rush
The cow-headed man is gone, but you can still see his strong body and animal eyes
Maybe he brings the locals water...he is the reason there are no clouds in the skies
You sigh and put your car in gear which sputters, and start down the dusty, empty highway
The sun is always high in the sky, you never can tell what time it is in the day
You don’t care, you’re glad to be out of the town. I bet you’ll glance back at it if you dare
But it has disappeared in a cloud of dust. Part of you wonders if it was ever even there.