Playing hooky, hiding in a crowd of tourists
Climbing out of and into park shuttle buses,
I thought of Rip Van Winkle forever escaping
Town to loll about in the hills. Yesterday
Was closer, the gods bowling thunder, birds
Singing in the aspens by the reservoir. Today
Was merely hiding in plain sight, in shade.
All these people come for hiking, for sights,
A dozen languages at least, young and old,
The buff, the plump, and the grotesques,
Though few as blatantly so as me. Walking
Sticks and sandals. Shorts and sun hats.
What was I to make of this danse macabre?
Nothing much more lively seeming
Than thickly meandering clots of people
Chattering and murmuring in summer colors,
The inexhaustible supply of us all.
Another double shuttle pulls up, disgorges,
And the one in front of it, full, creaks away.
How many wars, how many plagues
Would it take to replace this aching
Loneliness with something like true solitude?
Why the more we are, the lonelier?
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