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.