During a pandemic guests are entitled as at Christmas
and it’s been Christmastime for months. Everyone wants
a getaway without going away, euphemistic for a bedding
away from their 24/7/forever kids. Business picks up
150% when you’re the only themed hotel in town
and nobody knows how else to spend their stimulus checks.
My “easy summer job” isn’t giving me much
time to write between the baby-faced kids flopping
like salmon into marriage beds before the world ends;
the grandparents who really shouldn’t even be here
but are offended by the masks and upset about the stairs;
the blue-haired dudes with hands on their studded
hips demanding to know which front desk girl
is gonna go out there and pave him a new parking spot
while his newest girl smells our bath bombs and gags.
If you don’t fake-smile behind the mask the Karens can smell it,
will side-step the plexy-glass with their overgrown nailjobs
and snap, “How am I supposed to pick a movie if I can’t see the case?”
Twenty-year-olds wasting their unemployment checks on weekly stays
are my least favorite form of inspiration, no matter how creative their reasons
for returning complimentary popcorn over and over again.
I can only agree “This virus is ruining everything!” so many times per day—
can’t even read a book, might forget where I am, might tell a guest to go fuck
Celebration Inn, this is Brittney, how can I help you?
Britt Allen (she/her/hers) is a recent graduate from Utah State University, where she got her Master of Arts studying Literature and Writing to supplement her Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing. She teaches freshman composition for the university and is interested in the eroticism of violence in female confessional and lyric poetry, contributing her own experiences and voice with her art. Her first chapbook is titled Harvest and will be published in 2021 by Finishing Line Press. Follow her work at brittallen.org.