People say they love to get away
from the hustle and bustle
and the stress and mess
of quotidian urban life
They pack-up plastic tents
and drive to campsites for rent
where they can stare at a lake
throw a line in the water
and wish on worms
to catch flapping fish
as if they're tossing coins
into a wishing well
They'll gather the limbs
the trees have given up
and pile them in a pit
someone else has left
and they'll squeeze fluid
onto the tinder, and spark it
with a match or a lighter
they're sure to bring with them
Then they'll use wire hangers
to stab meat-like, tube-shaped, shanks
and roast them over flickering flames
When they're done with that
they'll pull out a plastic bag
of white, fluffy, squishy, blobs
and they'll char a crispy shell
over a gooey warm interior
As the sky grows dim
they'll look up for a moment
to see a sky no longer obscured
by so much blazing and artificial light
and then under the briefly beheld stars
they'll crawl into the plastic palaces
and feel a sense of reverence for
the beauty of nature
as they drift
into dreams
When they wake to a morning fog
they'll pack their things into a car
and make the long drive back
to the urban world they'd left
Then they'll tell everyone
about their pleasant reprieve
and declare their reverence
for the powerful, beautiful,
and restoring wonders of nature
through their tales of tranquil tents,
fishing lines, fluid fostered flames,
and clothing-hanger heated hot dogs
But the most marveled and magical
memory they'll hold in highest esteem
from their immersion in nature's
otherworldly wonders will be
their unbounded love
for the roasting of
marshmallows
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