Classic Poem

Afloat on an ocean of accolades my largest medal will always spell out my geography. This is the city my friends remember to leave: whiskey and winter, twenty-six days of sun. We are all the same, affirmation only a phone-call away. When the polar caps melt the Front Range will be beachfront; miles of burning wilderness extinguished. California is Atlantis deep with veins of post-Apocalyptic gold: Silicone. I do what I can. They do not see me in this garden, my cinnamon arm a transport for peripatetic forms, pulling the weeds, trimming the shrubs, oblivious to Latinate Gary Snyder would savor, deliver. Peter means Rock. My thumb is brown, green, dozens have used it to measure vast distances, hitchhike to sprout in new earthen plots. Place to nose and flick.