Pinnacle Peak

passing commuting caravans, the freeway twists through the mountains
everyone singly together on their journey alone utterly among millions
and off the ramp and into the high desert with high incomes
property paid with futures, every home exactly the same in its expensive squallor
but its slice into the succulence of the desert never the same
and through the gate and up to the crested house and through the bleached door
and into a room with no interior life, no questioning soul, no reason for hope

we talked and heard and watched and believed
and left with no more than we arrived bringing
down off the mountain, back to the everyday facades of a barroom full of people
and their eyes and their fears and nothing was different
everyone is the same, the environments we construct are our only meaning
where we breathe and hope that something will change
that a time will come when we look back and see the steps we took

To get to the moutain on the hill