For One Trick Pony


Leadville

“So much which shouldn't be is,” I muse.
I don't exercise agency. I'm doing all that
I can to breathe at 10,000 feet. Having
Hoped I would lose myself beneath
The spruces, I find that, instead, I'm
Endangered by fitness extremists,
Who fiercely pass by on their bicycles.
“No one's alone in the forest these days,”
I conclude, as I turn and walk back into
Town, where a century's picturesque
Squalor gives way to foie gras in the cafes,
And millionaires' cabins. The natives
Are shadows. They pick up the plates
And put bourbon and cannibis into
Brown bags. After Sunday arrives,
And the swells have gone home, they
Don't flock to the wilderness, don't
Stroll the streets. They stay home and do
Laundry. They squabble and wonder if
They'll make enough to keep paying
The rent. On Monday, this last of the
Flatlanders leaves, trailing money,
And disdain for both wealth and poverty.
Agency absent, I stare at the highway.
So much which is shouldn't be.




Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2021-07-27 at 15:08

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