The beams are creaking tonight. I see Joe
across the dark room, cemented in, last game
and he has had to piss for two hours. I hear
Tim flirting with the blond, about to, but not quite
having gone to bed with his bottle. Even Jamie,
new father, who’s face is a twister board of delight,
drains his last drops before staying up all night
on shift. Crumpled paper sheets fly through the air,
beer bottles cluster together as if lonely,
shot glasses glisten, plate upon plate shivers
as the tables are pounded in ecstatic eruptions.
Mark and Liz push through the crowd, we follow,
fueled by mischief, mouths running like waterfalls.

Everything seems to happen at once. These
mountain towns build then crumble then build.
Nights out we go for broke. Now Joe’s gone.
Tim keeps ducking out to Boulder. Jamie’s become
a second home owner somewhere else. Mark
and Liz got married in a field of wildflowers.
Eventually even miles of mountains can’t keep us
together. We come and go, matching pace
with restaurants and seasons. Any given day
someone arrives again, quietly sits on a bench
in the sun. At first you think you are different.
Press to recognize them, nod as you pass, but
they’ve been gone months, years, living out
the oceans of their lives. So have you.

Mountain Gazette (www.mountaingazette.com), March 2009