Vacation at the End of the World

by MADISON JONES

By the time we got up, they’d stopped serving 
breakfast forever. On the Segway tour, we argued 

about why we’d come. What led us to these dead woods
over happy hour oysters on some vanishing coast?

Two vacations had diverged at the end of the world,
and we chose the one with less traffic. In the night,

rain blew through the resort valley and washed our ashes
from the stoop where we sat up late after throwing darts

all evening at the sorry little bars. Outside in the ravine, 
the scent of rhododendrons filled the rain-washed air, thick

as a perfume counter. We phoned the front desk to request 
a late checkout, to stave off the end a little longer,

and gathered on the porch to watch the sun refuse to rise,
listening to bird songs heralding our demise.