(A first draft, I may come back to this one)
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We woke too early in the honeymoon suite
of the Mark Plaza Hotel, compliments of Scott,
my new brother-in-law who had flipped me the key
when he and Sharon left for an early flight at O’Hare.
No time to linger in luxury and the absurdity
of three beds pushed togther for two newly conjoined,
we fled Midwest conventionality as fast as a taxi
could take us to Mitchell Field, our escape route
to the freedom of the American West, Fort Collins
our enclave of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness
and independence just for independence’s sake.
It’s afternoon already outside Stapleton,
thumbing a ride north on 25, the past to our right,
the future to our left and the present
rushing to meet us at 70 miles an hour
past Longmont and Loveland, three rides
in quick succession, the last five miles on foot,
a time when people walked and all you needed
fit in a backpack. Home on the Front Range,
sun slipping behind Long’s Peak and Horestooth,
we walk to City Park to watch the fireworks
and the ducks and geese, heads tucked
under their wings, and the other young couples
under the star spangled sky.
