In this mountain town
we escape into fake real life
under rundle rocks and worm dirt,
over somebody else’s grandma’s vintage dress shirt.
Slouchy toques and mukluks
lounge in this cool crowd as they
sip tea, watch music, clap politely,
in choreographed abandon.
Gaze starry-eyed at the full moon perched
on the peak of the middle Sister,
hug everybody meaninglessly all the time,
awkwardly warm and stiff.
Capture fragrant distasteful puffs of reality,
plug nose and open ears to a happy banjo!
eyes to a blog about mountain themed knitting.
Generate a meaningful tattoo from the Internet.
Full social media points
when skin is lost completely.
Buy a four hundred and fifty thousand dollar “manufactured home”,
a trailer with a basement and a hot tub.
A garden of rocks and wasps.
Utility right-of-way sits on the fence,
while voices call before they dig.
Children are escorted by busy, guilty parents in Chariots
complete with shocks and brake pads by moms,
running ultra mountain marathons wearing makeup they deny.
Dads fade away slowly on distant treks,
straight up from outside their front door.
In this town,
balanced on the gate of the Canadian Rockies
every picture is a postcard.