The Wild Berry Inn 

(On The Northern Peninsula)

I’m checking in to The Wild Berry Inn

where the sweetest of Alzheimer smiles awaits,

and construction is higgledy piggledy slow,

incomplete and in some disarray,

with a lot of confusion between forward and back.

They lose your reservations, of course,

and send you to somebody else’s room

that might have been yours, but is now occupied,

and they’re showering there, but you have the keys,

so you meet them both, two gay guys, surprised.

Now management has to find you another,

goes checking them all to see if one’s empty,

finding those inside door chains all clink,

going back, at last, to the boys you walked in on,

and asking politely if they’d sleep in one bed

in another small room you had also booked,

which they do, but you too must cooperate,

in order to solve the sleeping problem.

So a mattress is dragged to another room

where the paint isn’t dry and the light bulb is bare,

but everyone sleeps like one big happy family,

and the next day they give you a discount.