The Madonna Inn

by Catherine Simpson

That Pepto Bismol pink chalet

Crusted with white gingerbread, sprawling

Like an unraveled intestine, vibrantly.


The themed rooms—Safari, Paris

Violets, Mountain View, Sugar and Spice,

Caveman—the pink ballroom hung with

Fat cherubims two feet tall, gilt everywhere,

Festooned with masses of plastic flowering

Vines—all this is beyond tasteless, beyond

Kitsch. There’s a koi pond on the grounds,

And a running grotto behind the swimming

Pool, flowing from the side of the mountain.


Near the entrance is a bronze statue of Alex

Madonna on a rearing horse, portly and smiling,

Holding a bronze cowboy hat in his right hand.


You remember the place as you remember a

Person. That should be the purpose of creating

Anything: to say that a singular vision is different

Than another person’s, but no less complete.


2 thoughts on “The Madonna Inn

  1. I like your work– the diction, the graceful flow, and especially the way you impart the metaphysical onto daily life.

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