Hopi House

Stephen Cloud | Poetry

There’s nothing left of Hopi House, rest stop for the road weary, ten miles west
       of Winslow on old Route 66. The diner served up hotcakes and sausage links.

       Christmas music played on an old radio. My brother colored the paper placemat,

       and I watched snow urries whipping about on the winter wind.

There’s nothing left of Hopi House, the adobe facade, walls painted with the

       iconography of thunderbirds, kachinas, pots, and looms. My father waited with

       the car at the Texaco pumps while an attendant in cap and bow tie checked oil,

       air, and water

There’s nothing left of the trading post, the curiosities and wonders within—Navajo

       rugs, mineral rocks, petri ed wood, a chance to see rattlesnakes under glass. My

       mother checked her purse for coins, allowing us each to choose one souvenir.

       Whatever happened to that arrowhead?

There’s nothing left of Hopi House, nothing at all. I stood at the crossroads where
       it used to be. The wind blew hard, a chill in the high desert air. The sacred

       mountain wavered in a gritty haze. Tumbleweeds skittered across the highway. A

       raven lit on a rock to let me know: there’s nothing left, nothing left, nothing at all.