Between
Christmas and New Year's
they
execute Saddam Hussein, and tourists descend
on
the mountain. I decide to move.
I
can't even go for coffee without navigating
around
big, puffy entitled people
acting
like they own the place.
The radio says
they insulted the bastard's religion,
The radio says
they insulted the bastard's religion,
and
then hung him. Also, that
traffic
is clogging every route up the hill,
he
seemed frightened on the gallows,
a
fawn is lying dead on the back road in,
and
"The Christmas Story" is sold out
at
the Community Center.
I
begin packing. I evaluate what matters.
I
need my family, my dogs, and my pictures.
Some
place in Iraq
people
are dancing in the streets.
Off
a dangerous mountain road,
a
mother waits in the dark.
I
study a Forest Service map
of
tiny roads to small places.
Skiers
buy lift tickets
and
ascend.
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