He took us to where the river
rushes – pools to falls –
and we swam,
and met a man,
with two bags of fish
weighing down his eyes.
That night,
the folks I lead around by rope
are ironic at the sky.
I have to walk away –
back to the parking lot,
where America cranes shameless.
Thick forearms clutching
little stomachs,
and hoods for rain,
and plaster skin,
red with booze
and mountain sun.
Look at you, country,
embarrassing us with all your
colors.
We pull our arms right
through
your sleeves,
quickly in the bathroom stall -
scan the bar, then
leave.
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