by Mark Hahn
It’s been raining for days, alternating between downpours and drizzles. Dark skies make me feel blue, but thunder and lightning makes me feel alive. When a storm ends, some of the electricity stays in the air. This is one of those days in South Tucson.
These small structures sit across the road from an old motel. It’s hard to look down the dark rain washed highway without thinking of Roger Miller’s King of the Road. An old easy chair sits by the door with rain dripping off the roof onto its upholstery. You have to wonder who was the last person who sat in this chair and what they thought while looking across the bleak landscape of distant trailer parks and palm trees.
For years an old cement crying indian statue sat in front of the motel, but now it is gone. Apparently the motel — half motel and half trailer park really — is under new management. I wondered where the statue ended up.
Perhaps the rain washed away all the tears along with everything else. Large puddles reflect the twighlight sky with a few 2×4’s and old tires breaking through the dark surface. A still line of boxcars stand in the distance with the power plant looming up from behind. A woman quickly walks under the bridge — rushing off somewhere before it starts to rain again.