Our Camping Trip

On our very first night
The campfire wouldn’t light;
So I sang you a tune
By the light of the moon
And you told me something
By a poetic king
That you had learned by heart
From your deaf Uncle Bart.

But on night number two
The sparks finally flew;
So with faces aglow,
And warm fingers and toes,
We made shapes from the flames
And forgot our own names;
Speaking nary a word,
Thinking cities absurd.

The third night was the last
Under a sky so vast
That we felt like mere ants
That dared to wear pants
And failed to remember
Where our real places were,
That our real duties lie
Not in just getting by.

The next morning we drove
To return to our stove,
To hide inside concrete,
To keep warm with fake heat.
But as we type reports
And faithfully watch sports,
Our souls yearn for release
To nature’s gentle peace.

The End

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