Outside East Glacier

You were not the trip between

the brown painted logs of the

rustic-made gift-and-fudge

shop and the small super-market,

operated there with the twenty

car parking-lot edging up against

a field of summer yellowed wild grasses,

whipping in the wind. You were

not the trip from the front of the

hollow, cardboard-smell store with

it’s small selection of brown-

spotted vegetables past the racks of

domestic wines bottles,

frosted with fine grey dust from

crumbling EZ-Mac boxes just like

the entire health and beauty

aisle. Except the tampons, which

looked, unlike everything else,

quite fresh, encased in their tight

white and pink plastic packaging.

You were not the drive it took

to get to the store. You were not

the numbing hours between the

outskirts of the Park and anywhere.

You were not a journey. Standing,

confronted with ten year old

envelopes and wondering where

to buy stamps, I imagined you

treading water in the middle of

a glacial lake. And then a tropical

sea. And then, finally, a small

suburban pool, children in brightly

colored rip-stop nylon shorts

splashing all around you.

--RFRY, 29 Jul 06

This is the first version of Outside East Glacier.