That Holiday Air. We breezed into the Brunswick, followed our noses to the dining room, 'Twas a romantic hideaway boutiquey newly tarted-up historic hotel, But when in authentic 30s Kingman hot young lovers cannot assume Their Arizonan night of heavenly pleasures won't come -or go- to hell. The owners had been penny wise when fitting out the Brunswick, True to its history they'd turned to every possible cheap trick, An attempt to retain all original features, all part of the plan; So, creaking bedsprings and no air-con 'cept for the ol' ceiling fan. Outside, a high desert wind buffeted the shuttered window pane, Inside, an ill wind blew no good, thanks to a lousy hotels buffet, Dawn saw the leaving of two wretches who will not return again, Now neither of us talk of, much less wish to repeat that sorry day.
(Written for Chel Owens A Mused poetry competition. Slightly modified from her PG13 requirement.) This less than top rank effort contains a touch of poetically licensed exaggeration yet embarrassingly retains more than a whiff of pure unadulterated truth.