Somewhere in Wyoming

You’re a mountain-town of moguls

all terracotta soil, shrubbery, and sky

where forest fires shroud the Teton peaks.

Home of backyard barbecues

under cover of aspens,

teens sporting Tevas and full beards

who thrill-seek and smoke weed

near winding roads.

On a washed out horizon you’re

the wasteland town where the sign reads

population: 435

and yields to the drag of gas stations and

rock shops.

Ranch country where hikers

brave brisk air for shots

of pink sunglow sunset and elk,

homages to Mangelsen.

Days spent at altitude with bleary eyes

and split lips chewed

till creases fill with crimson.

The unofficial capital of live music,

dehydration headaches, and extreme


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