Red Cliff, Colorado

I see the sun has gone behind some clouds.
The sullen conversation clots. A door is
Opened. Then, it's closed, and through
It pass professionals, who gravely peck
Their telephones, and order appetizers,
Order lives, which seem unsuited to
The wilderness, which lingers near.
They eat, then travel to their rooms
To watch TV, to polish pricy bicycles,
On which they'll race along the roads,
Which carve, as killers would, the
Wounds on what was out of reach.
The locals, pockets lined. complain.
Their sullen conversation clots.
Another beer. I'm on my way.
The sun has set, the wilderness
Betrayed, and I, too new to be a local.
Impecunious; so clearly unprofessional,
Must make my measured steps toward
My room. Now, out of breath and
Inspiration, I expect the sun to show
Itself tomorrow morning, at the
Mountain's eastern edge, and,
As it does, I'll say I've found a
Wildness which passes, rarely
Seen, but isn't gone.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 31 times
Written on 2013-07-25 at 03:37

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text