FEB 2, 2016
On softpebbled shores we are a Kathmandu ad.
Patagonia’s wettest dream, Colombia’s next fad.
Brands named for vaguely exotic places
crave us in their feeds, their sites and glossy pages.
We are their white millennial fantasy,
setting up camp so flawlessly –
all lanky limbs flinging tent poles ‘til upright,
all lovey youth scratching galaxies of bug bites,
warmed by each other’s thrifted flannel rags,
and the down of our expertly engineered bags.
We are boiling crystal water for our dehydrated dinner.
We are ripe with health and always getting thinner.
We are plucking ukuleles underneath the silver moon.
We are licking Nutella off of a bamboo spoon.
We are kissing each other’s hair, comically affright,
We are glowing from solar lamps and simmering starlight.
Our bicycles rest against a tree we can’t identify,
screaming fitness, valor and commitment to exemplify
protection of the natural world that we hold so dear,
for all false gypsies in their campervans to hear.
Night passes fast, dawn punching the sky early
but in our synthetic cave, we slumber on so surely,
waking to sunlight high over the glittering lake
yet knowing we haven’t made any big mistake
by staying a few extra ticks
where we can hear, so close and clear,
the phantom camera clicks.