Burnt fingers with
smoke-pinched eyes,
my boiling morning coffee
tipping over into my hobo’s fire.
Some days begin better than others.
I return to camp,
and somebody’s made off
with my ice axe, sleeping bag,
and alpine stove.
What is one to do?
There are crooks on Wall Street,
and in the dark inner recesses of Congress,
and now, there are crooks in these mountains
of winding waters and light . . .
So we do our best, together, and alone,
to keep the fire alive,
getting ready:—
for uncertain, leaner times.