Gateway
After a few years
in the canyon, its
odd damp corners
Swiss-green in the desert
climate, its leering
plateaus gashed with
geographic years,
studded with brush
like a teenage upper lip,
it almost became
invisible, wallpaper,
a barrier to beauty
instead of its evidence.
Until some rich prick
riled this lazy
post office town
into a turf war,
codified angry secrets
into marketing terms
like “lush landscape”
or urging visitors
who apparently don’t
of their own accord to
“breathe.”
And now there are
lampposts and organic
tomatoes and embarrassed
half-glances as people
hide condescending
amazement that so
sorry, there isn’t another
restaurant in town
except the café that opens
when they feel like it.
I am an alien
to both these worlds,
tourist among tourists
leering at nature’s
newly-groomed trails,
pool boy in this
sand-colored stucco
prison without even
dreams of escape,
as boredom leaves
a dent in my passenger
seat and we dare
the plateaus
to defy us.
