Arctolatry
“Careful, now: this will be a little hot.”
A most rude road has bumped you through Wyoming
to one defunct gas pump, a floodlit lot,
a starburst counter where your phone lies, roaming.
A beehived female with insane eyeliner
has brought you meatloaf and a great big foaming
root beer float. This is the final diner
before the air thins and the grizzly bear
takes over. Ursa Major and Ursa Minor
just keep on shambling through the night out there
above the peak of freedom—stream, pine, den.
Swiveling inward on a vinyl chair,
you slurp the dregs and drop a crumpled ten,
then turn to wilderness, American.