At the Red Pine Motel

by Andrew Schelling

Myself I’ll try — it —
go the way things go
mountains walk that way
rivers dash through — it —

there it was
the Red Pine Motel, South Broadway
torn mattresses & oily car parts in the yard.
a child waved
for no reason

Let’s take her pagan joy — maybe
goddess — creed — it won’t produce
bigotry, no fancy car, no fit of rage
at the traffic signal

Granite, basalt
the Platte River grinds through, drying out
It’s 100 degrees on the street
that child waved

for no reason
The Red Pine Motel has a banged up metal
pine tree —
neon sign that’s yellow