The hotel was really an apartment;
we fell suspicious.
Our father didn’t speak in his usual
night voice telling stories about stars,
children playing on planets, moons.
Bologna and Jiffy Pop popcorn scared us.
We used dishwashing soap for shampoo.
Our hair wasn’t soft and Mother was quiet.
The smell of used tan bedspreads and musty carpet
kept us awake on unfamiliar sheets,
until my father let me count
one hundred dollar bills
under the light of a makeshift
dining table, with odds and ends
for chairs.
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